THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

J.  Lorenz  Sporer 


IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 


W.  H.  HUDSON 

Author  of  "Idle  Days  in  Patagonia,"  "  The  Purple 
Land,"  "A  Crystal  Age,"  Etc. 


IDLE    DAYS    IN 
PATAGONIA 


BY 

W.  H.  HUDSON 

AUTHOR  or  "THE  PUBPLE  LAND,"  "A  CRYSTAL  AQE,' 
"A  SHEPHERD'S  LIFE,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
ALFRED  HARTLEY  AOT  J.  SMIT 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  <fc  CO, 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


PUBLISHED  1917, 

BY 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


$rtntrt  in  tfjt  «nitrt  fetatefi  of  Smttfca 


College 
Library 

PR 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

AT  LAST,  PATAGONIA!  .......        1 

CHAPTER  II. 

HOW  I  BECAME  AN  IDLER      ......         18 

CHAPTER  III. 
VALLEY  OF  THE  BLACK  RIVER      .....      31 

CHAPTER  IV. 

ASPECTS  OF  THE  VALLEY      ......      42 

CHAPTER  V. 
A  DOG  IN  EXILE          .......      57 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  WAR  WITH  NATURE      ......       72 

CHAPTER  VII. 
LIFE  IN  PATAGONIA      .......      91 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

SNOW,   AND   THE   QUALITY   OF  WHITENESS          .  .  .       108 

CHAPTER  IX. 
IDLE  DAYS          .        .  121 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  X. 

PAGE 

BIRD  Music  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA 140 

CHAPTER  XI. 
SIGHT  IN  SAVAGES 158 

CHAPTER  XII. 
CONCERNING  EYES 179 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA 201 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
THE  PERFUME  OF  AN  EVENING  PRIMROSE  229 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Portrait  of  Author Frontispiece 

PAGE 

At  last,  Patagonia!        ....... 

Chafiar  trees         ........ 

Serpent  with  a  Cross     ....... 

Swallows  congregating  ....... 

An  Indian  burial-place  ...... 

The  river  by  moonlight          ...... 

Snow  at  El  Carmen      ....... 

Black  vulture       ........ 

Cow  and  pigs        ........ 

Major  and  the  flamingo         ...... 

Upland  geese        ........ 

Damian  gives  himself  up        ...... 

Damian's  wife       ........ 

Ctenomys  magellanica  ....... 

Calodromus  elegans       ....... 

Dolichotes  patagonica  ....... 

Calandria  mocking-bird 

Cyphorhinus  cantans    ....... 

Gaucho  with  spectacles          ...... 

Viewing  a  distant  object        ...... 

Magellanic  eagle  owl     ....... 

The  Plains  of  Patagonia 

Wakening  at  dawn        ....... 

The  evening  primrose   ....... 

vii 


IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 


IDLE  DAYS  IN 
PATAGONIA 

CHAPTER  I 
AT  LAST,  PATAGONIA! 

HPHE  wind  had  blown  a  gale  all  night,  and  I  had 
-*•  been  hourly  expecting  that  the  tumbling, 
storm-vexed  old  steamer,  in  which  I  had  taken 
passage  to  the  Eio  Negro,  would  turn  over  once 
for  all  and  settle  down  beneath  that  tremendous 
tumult  of  waters.  For  the  groaning  sound  of  its 
straining  timbers,  and  the  engine  throbbing  like 
an  overtasked  human  heart,  had  made  the  ship 
seem  a  living  thing  to  me ;  and  it  was  tired  of  the 
struggle,  and  under  the  tumult  was  peace.  But 
at  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  wind 
began  to  moderate,  and,  taking  off  coat  and  boots, 
I  threw  myself  into  my  bunk  for  a  little  sleep. 

Ours,  it  must  be  said,  w^as  a  very  curious  boat, 
reported  ancient  and  much  damaged;  long  and 
narrow  in  shape,  like  a  Viking's  ship,  with  the 
passengers'  cabins  ranged  like  a  row  of  small 
wooden  cottages  on  the  deck:  it  was  as  ugly  to 
look  at  as  it  was  said  to  be  unsafe  to  voyage  in. 

i 


2  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

To  make  matters  worse  our  captain,  a  man  over 
eighty  years  old,  was  lying  in  his  cabin  sick  unto 
death,  for,  as  a  fact,  he  died  not  many  days  after 
our  mishap;  our  one  mate  was  asleep,  leaving 
only  the  men  to  navigate  the  steamer  on  that 
perilous  coast,  and  in  the  darkest  hour  of  a  tem- 
pestuous night. 

I  was  just  dropping  into  a  doze  when  a  succes- 
sion of  bumps,  accompanied  by  strange  grating 
and  grinding  noises,  and  shuddering  motions  of 
the  ship,  caused  me  to  start  up  again  and  rush  to 
the  cabin  door.  The  night  was  still  black  and 
starless,  with  wind  and  rain,  but  for  acres  round 
us  the  sea  was  whiter  than  milk.  I  did  not  step 
out ;  close  to  me,  half-way  between  my  cabin  door 
and  the  bulwarks,  where  our  only  boat  was  fas- 
tened, three  of  the  sailors  were  standing  together 
talking  in  low  tones.  "We  are  lost,"  I  heard  one 
say;  and  another  answer,  "Aye,  lost  for  ever!" 
Just  then  the  mate,  roused  from  sleep,  came  run- 
ning to  them.  "Good  God,  what  have  you  done 
with  the  steamer!"  he  exclaimed  sharply;  then, 
dropping  his  voice,  he  added,  "Lower  the  boat- 
quick  ! ' ' 

I  crept  out  and  stood,  unseen  by  them  in  the 
obscurity,  within  five  feet  of  the  group.  Not  a 
thought  of  the  dastardly  character  of  the  act  they 
were  about  to  engage  in — for  it  was  their  inten- 
tion to  save  themselves  and  leave  us  to  our  fate- 
entered  my  mind  at  the  time.  My  only  thought 
was  that  at  the  last  moment,  when  they  would  be 


AT  LAST,  PATAGONIA!  3 

unable  to  prevent  it  except  by  knocking  me  sense- 
less, I  would  spring  with  them  into  the  boat  and 
save  myself,  or  else  perish  with  them  in  that 
awful  white  surf.  But  one  other  person,  more 
experienced  than  myself,  and  whose  courage  took 
another  and  better  form,  was  also  near  and  lis- 
tening. He  was  the  first  engineer — a  young  Eng- 
lishman from  Newcastle-on-Tyne.  Seeing  the 
men  making  for  the  boat,  he  slipped  out  of  the 
engine-room,  revolver  in  hand,  and  secretly  fol- 
lowed them;  and  when  the  mate  gave  that  order, 
he  stepped  forward  with  the  weapon  raised,  and 
said  in  a  quiet  but  determined  voice  that  he  would 
ishoot  the  first  man  who  should  attempt  to  obey 
it.  The  men  slunk  away  and  disappeared  in  the 
gloom.  In  a  few  moments  more  the  passengers 
began  streaming  out  on  to  the  deck  in  a  great  state 
of  alarm;  last  of  all  the  old  captain,  white  and 
hollow-eyed  from  his  death-bed,  appeared  like  a 
ghost  among  us.  He  had  not  been  long  standing 
there,  with  arms  folded  on  his  chest,  issuing  no 
word  of  command,  and  paying  no  attention  to 
the  agitated  questions  addressed  to  him  by  the 
passengers,  when,  by  some  lucky  chance,  the 
steamer  got  off  the  rocks  and  plunged  on  for  a 
space  through  the  seething,  milky  surf ;.  then,  very 
suddenly,  passed  out  of  it  into  black  and  com- 
paratively calm  water.  For  ten  or  twelve  minutes 
she  sped  rapidly  and  smoothly  on;  then  it  was 
said  that  she  had  ceased  to  move,  that  we  were 
stuck  fast  in  the  sand  of  the  shore,  although  no 


4  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

shore  was  visible  in  the  intense  darkness,  and  to 
m6  it  seemed  that  we  were  still  moving  swiftly  on. 

There  was  no  longer  any  wind,  and  through  the 
now  fast-breaking  clouds  ahead  of  us  appeared 
the  first  welcome  signs  of  dawn.  By  degrees  the 
darkness  grew  less  intense ;  only  just  ahead  of  us 
there  still  remained  something  black  and  un- 
changeable— a  portion,  as  it  were,  of  that  pitchy 
gloom  that  a  short  time  before  had  made  sea  and 
air  appear  one  and  indistinguishable;  but  as  the 
light  increased  it  changed  not,  and  at  last  it  was 
seen  to  be  a  range  of  low  hills  or  dunes  of  sand 
scarcely  a  stone's  throw  from  the  ship's  bows. 
It  was  true  enough  that  we  were  stuck  fast  in  the 
sand;  and  although  this  was  a  safer  bed  for  the 
steamer  than  the  jagged  rocks,  the  position  was 
still  a  perilous  one,  and  I  at  once  determined  to 
land.  Three  other  passengers  resolved  to  bear  me 
company;  and  as  the  tide  had  now  gone  out,  a^d 
the  water  at  the  bows  was  barely  waist  deep,  we 
were  lowered  by  means  of  ropes  into  the  sea,  and 
quickly  waded  to  the  shore. 

We  were  not  long  in  scrambling  up  the  dunes 
to  get  a  sight  of  the  country  beyond.  At  last,  Pat- 
agonia! How  often  had  I  pictured  in  imagina- 
tion, wishing  with  an  intense  longing  to  visit  this 
solitary  wilderness,  resting  far  off  in  its  primitive 
and  desolate  peace,  untouched  by  man,  remote 
from  civilization!  There  it  lay  full  in  sight  be- 
fore me — the  unmarred  desert  that  wakes  strange 
feelings  in  us;  the  ancient  habitation  of  giants, 


AT  LAST,  FATAGOXIA! 


AT  LAST,  PATAGONIA!  5 

whose  footprints  seen  on  the  sea-shore  amazed 
Magellan  and  his  men,  and  won  for  it  the  name 
of  Patagonia.  There,  too,  far  away  in  the  in- 
terior, was  the  place  called  Trapalanda,  and  the 
spirit-guarded  lake,  on  whose  margin  rose  the 
battlements  of  that  mysterious  city,  which  many 
have  sought  and  none  have  found. 

It  was  not,  however,  the  fascination  of  old 
legends  that  drew  me,  nor  the  desire  of  the  desert, 
for  not  until  I  had  seen  it,  and  had  tasted  its 
flavor,  then,  and  on  many  subsequent  occasions, 
did  I  know  how  much  its  solitude  and  desolation 
would  be  to  me,  what  strange  knowledge  it  would 
teach,  and  how  enduring  its  effect  would  be  on 
my  spirit.  Not  these  things,  but  the  passion  of 
the  ornithologist  took  me.  Many  of  the  winged 
wanderers  with  which  I  had  been  familiar  from 
childhood  in  La  Plata  were  visitors,  occasional  or 
regular,  from  this  gray  wilderness  of  thorns.  In 
some  cases  they  were  passengers,  seen  only  when 
they  stooped  to  rest  their  wings,  or  heard  far  off 
1 1  wailing  their  way  from  cloud  to  cloud, ' '  impelled 
by  that  mysterious  thought -baffling  faculty,  so  un- 
like all  other  phenomena  in  its  manifestations  as 
to  give  it  among  natural  things  something  of  the 
supernatural.  Some  of  these  wanderers,  more  es- 
pecially such  as  possess  only  a  partial  or  limited 
migration,  I  hoped  to  meet  again  in  Patagonia, 
singing  their  summer  songs,  and  breeding  in  their 
summer  haunts.  It  was  also  my  hope  to  find  some 
new  species,  some  bird  as  beautiful,  let  us  say,  as 


6  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

the  wryneck  or  wheatear,  and  as  old  on  the  earth, 
but  which  had  never  been  named  and  never  ever 
seen  by  any  appreciative  human  eye.  I  do  not 
know  how  it  is  with  other  ornithologists  at  the 
time  when  their  enthusiasm  is  greatest ;  of  myself 
I  can  say  that  my  dreams  by  night  were  often  of 
some  new  bird,  vividly  seen;  and  such  dreams 
were  always  beautiful  to  me,  and  a  grief  to  wake 
from ;  yet  the  dream-bird  often  as  not  appeared  in 
a  modest  gray  coloring,  or  plain  brown,  or  some 
other  equally  sober  tint. 

From  the  summit  of  the  sandy  ridge  we  saw 
before  us  an  undulating  plain,  bounded  only  by 
the  horizon,  carpeted  with  short  grass,  seared  by 
the  summer  suns,  and  sparsely  dotted  over  with  a 
few  somber-leafed  bushes.  It  was  a  desert  that 
had  been  a  desert  always,  and  for  that  very  reason 
sweet  beyond  all  scenes  to  look  upon,  its  ancient 
quiet  broken  only  by  the  occasional  call  or  twitter 
of  some  small  bird,  while  the  morning  air  I  inhaled 
was  made  delicious  with  a  faint  familiar  perfume. 
Casting  my  eyes  down  I  perceived,  growing  in 
the  sand  at  my  feet,  an  evening  primrose  plant, 
with  at  least  a  score  of  open  blossoms  on  its  low 
wide-spreading  branches;  and  this,  my  favorite 
flower,  both  in  gardens  and  growing  wild,  was  the 
sweet  perfumer  of  the  wilderness!  Its  subtle 
fragrance,  first  and  last,  has  been  much  to  me, 
and  has  followed  me  from  the  New  World  to  the 
Old,  to  serve  sometimes  as  a  kind  of  second  more 
faithful  memory,  and  to  set  my  brains  working  on 


AT  LAST,  PATAGONIA!  7 

a  pretty  problem,  to  which  I  shall  devote  a  chapter 
at  the  end  of  this  book. 

Our  survey  concluded,  we  set  out  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Rio  Negro.  Before  quitting  the 
steamer  the  captain  had  spoken  a  few  words  to  us. 
Looking  at  us  as  though  he  saw  us  not,  he  said 
that  the  ship  had  gone  ashore  somewhere  north  of 
the  Eio  Negro,  about  thirty  miles  he  thought,  and 
that  we  should  doubtless  find  some  herdsmen's 
huts  on  our  way  thither.  No  need  then  to  burden 
ourselves  with  food  and  drink!  At  first  we  kept 
close  to  the  dunes  that  bordered  the  seashore,  wad- 
ing through  a  luxuriant  growth  of  wild  liquorice 
— a  pretty  plant  about  eighteen  inches  high,  with 
deep  green  feathery  foliage  crowned  with  spikes 
of  pale  blue  flowers.  Some  of  the  roots  which 
we  pulled  up  from  the  loose  sandy  soil  were  over 
nine  feet  in  length.  All  the  apothecaries  in  the 
world  might  have  laid  in  a  few  years'  supply 
of  the  drug  from  the  plants  we  saw  on  that  morn- 
ing. 

To  my  mind  there  is  nothing  in  life  so  delightful 
as  that  feeling  of  relief,  of  escape,  and  absolute 
freedom  which  one  experiences  in  a  vast  solitude, 
where  man  has  perhaps  never  been,  and  has,  at 
any  rate,  left  no  trace  of  his  existence.  It  was 
strong  and  exhilarating  in  me  on  that  morning; 
and  I  was  therefore  by  no  means  elated  when  we 
descried,  some  distance  ahead,  the  low  walls  of 
half  a  dozen  mud  cabins.  My  fellow-travelers 
were,  however,  delighted  at  the  discovery,  and  we 


8  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

hastened  on,  thinking  that  we  were  nearer  to  the 
settlement  than  we  had  supposed.  But  we  found 
the  huts  uninhabited,  the  doors  broken  down,  the 
wells  choked  up  and  overgrown  with  wild  liquorice 
plants. 

We  learnt  subsequently  that  a  few  venturesome 
herdsmen  had  made  their  home  in  this  remote  spot 
with  their  families,  and  that  about  a  year  before 
our  visit  the  Indians  had  swept  down  on  them  and 
destroyed  the  young  settlement.  Very  soon  we 
turned  our  backs  on  the  ruined  hovels,  my  com- 
panions loudly  expressing  their  disappointment, 
while  I  felt  secretly  glad  that  we  were  yet  to 
drink  a  little  more  deeply  of  the  cup  of  wild  na- 
ture. 

After  walking  on  some  distance  we  found  a  nar- 
row path  leading  away  southward  from  the  ruined 
village,  and,  believing  that  it  led  direct  to  the  Car- 
men, the  old  settlement  on  the  Rio  Negro,  which 
is  over  twenty  miles  from  the  sea,  we  at  once  re- 
solved to  follow  it.  This  path  led  us  wide  of 
the  ocean.  Before  noon  we  lost  sight  of  the  low 
sand-hills  on  our  right  hand,  and  as  we  pene- 
trated further  into  the  interior  the  dark-leafed 
bushes  I  have  mentioned  were  more  abundant. 
The  dense,  stiff,  dark-colored  foliage  of  these 
bushes  give  them  a  strange  appearance  on  the 
pale  sundried  plains,  as  of  black  rocks  of  num- 
berless fantastic  forms  scattered  over  the  grayish- 
yellow  ground.  No  large  fowls  were  seen;  small 
birds  were,  however,  very  abundant,  gladdening 


AT  LAST,  PATAGONIA!  9 

the  parched  wilderness  with  their  minstrelsy. 
Most  noteworthy  among  the  true  songsters  were 
the  Patagonian  mocking  bird  and  four  or  five 
finches,  two  of  them  new  to  me.  Here  I  first  made 
the  acquaintance  of  a  singular  and  very  pretty 
bird — the  red-breasted  plant-cutter,  a  finch  too, 
but  only  in  appearance.  It  is  a  sedentary  bird  and 
sits  conspicuously  on  the  topmost  twig,  display- 
ing its  ruddy  under  plumage;  occasionally  emit- 
ting, by  way  of  song,  notes  that  resemble  the  faint 
bleatings  of  a  kid,  and,  when  disturbed,  passing 
from  bush  to  bush  by  a  series  of  jerks,  the  wings 
producing  a  loud  humming  sound.  Most  numer- 
ous, and  surpassing  all  others  in  interest,  were 
the  omnipresent  Dendrocolaptine  bird,  or  wood- 
hewers,  or  tree-creepers  as  they  are  sometimes 
called — feeble  flyers,  in  uniform  sober  brown 
plumage ;  restless  in  their  habits  and  loquacious, 
with  shrill  and  piercing,  or  clear  resonant  voices. 
One  terrestrial  species,  with  a  sandy-brown  plum- 
age, Upucerthia  dumetoria,  raced  along  before  us 
on  the  ground,  in  appearance  a  stout  miniature 
ibis  with  very  short  legs  and  exaggerated  beak. 
Every  bush  had  its  little  colony  of  brown  gleaners, 
small  birds  of  the  genus  Synallaxis,  moving  rest- 
lessly about  among  the  leaves,  occasionally  sus- 
pending themselves  from  the  twigs  head  down- 
wards, after  the  manner  of  tits.  From  the  dis- 
tance at  intervals  came  the  piercing  cries  of  the 
cachalote  (Homorus  gutturalis)  a  much  larger 
bird,  sounding  like  bursts  of  hysterical  laughter. 


TO  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

All  these  Dendrocolaptine  birds  have  an  inordi- 
nate passion  for  building,  and  their  nests  are  very 
much  larger  than  small  birds  usually  make. 
Where  they  are  abundant  the  trees  and  bushes  are 
sometimes  laden  with  their  enormous  fabrics,  so 
that  the  thought  is  forced  on  one  that  these  busy 
little  architects  do  assuredly  occupy  themselves 
with  a  vain  unprofitable  labor.  It  is  not  only  the 
case  that  many  a  small  bird  builds  a  nest  as  big  as 
a  buzzard's,  only  to  contain  half  a  dozen  eggs  the 
size  of  peas,  which  might  very  comfortably  be 
hatched  in  a  pill-box;  but  frequently,  when  the 
nest  has  been  finished,  the  builder  sets  about  de- 
molishing it  to  get  the  materials  for  constructing 
a  second  nest.  One  very  common  species,  Anum- 
bius  acuticaudatus,  variously  called  in  the  ver- 
nacular the  thorn-bird,  the  woodman,  and  the  fire- 
wood-gatherer, sometimes  makes  three  nests  in 
the  course  of  a  year,  each  composed  of  a  good 
armful  of  sticks.  The  woodman's  nest  is,  how- 
ever, an  insignificant  structure  compared  with 
that  of  the  obstreperous  cachalote  mentioned  a 
moment  ago.  This  bird,  which  is  about  as  large 
as  a  missel  thrush,  selects  a  low  thorny  bush  with 
stout  wide-spreading  branches,  and  in  the  center 
of  it  builds  a  domed  nest  of  sticks,  perfectly 
spherical  and  four  or  five  feet  deep.  The  opening 
is  at  the  side  near  the  top,  and  leading  to  it  there 
is  a  narrow  arched  gallery  resting  on  a  horizontal 
branch,  and  about  fourteen  inches  long.  So  com- 
pactly made  is  this  enormous  nest  that  I  have 


AT  LAST,  PATAGONIA!  11 

found  it  hard  to  break  one  up.  I  have  also  stood 
upright  on  the  dome  and  stamped  on  it  with  my 
boots  without  injuring  it  at  all.  During  my  stay 
in  Patagonia  I  found  about  a  dozen  of  these  pa- 
latial nests ;  and  my  opinion  is  that  like  our  own 
houses,  or,  rather,  our  public  buildings,  and  some 
ant-hills,  and  the  vizcacha's  village  burrows,  and 
the  beaver 's  dam,  it  is  made  to  last  for  ever. 

The  only  mammal  we  saw  was  a  small  arma- 
dillo, Dasypus  minutus ;  it  was  quite  common,  and 
early  in  the  day,  when  we  were  still  fresh  and 
full  of  spirits,  we  amused  ourselves  by  chasing 
them.  We  captured  several,  and  one  of  my  com- 
panions, an  Italian,  killed  two  and  slung  them 
over  his  shoulder,  remarking  that  we  could  cook 
and  eat  them  if  we  grew  hungry  before  reaching 
our  destination.  We  were  not  much  troubled  with 
hunger,  but  towards  noon  we  began  to  suffer  some- 
what from  thirst.  At  midday  we  saw  before  us 
a  low  level  plain,  covered  with  long  coarse  grass 
of  a  dull  yellowish-green  color.  Here  we  hoped 
to  find  water,  and  before  long  we  descried  the 
white  gleam  of  a  lagoon,  as  we  imagined,  but  on 
a  nearer  inspection  the  whiteness  or  appearance 
of  water  turned  out  to  be  only  a  salt  efflorescence 
on  a  barren  patch  of  ground.  On  this  low  plain  it 
was  excessively  sultry ;  not  a  bush  could  be  found 
to  shelter  us  from  the  sun :  all  was  a  monotonous 
desert  of  coarse  yellowish  grass,  out  of  which 
rose,  as  we  advanced,  multitudes  of  mosquitoes, 
trumpeting  a  shrill  derisive  welcome.  The  glory 


12  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

of  the  morning  that  had  so  enchanted  us  at  the 
outset  had  died  out  of  nature,  and  the  scene  was 
almost  hateful  to  look  on.  We  were  getting  tired, 
too,  but  the  heat  and  our  thirst,  and  the  intoler- 
able fi  fo  fum  of  the  ravenous  mosquitoes  would 
not  suffer  us  to  rest. 

In  this  desolate  spot  I  discovered  one  object  of 
interest  in  a  singular  little  bird,  of  slender  form 
and  pale  yellowish-brown  color.  Perched  on  a 
stem  above  the  grass  it  gave  utterance  at  regular 
intervals  to  a  clear,  long,  plaintive  whistle,  audi- 
ble nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away ;  and  this  one 
unmodulated  note  was  its  only  song  or  call.  When 
any  attempt  to  approach  it  was  made  it  would 
drop  down  into  the  grass,  and  conceal  itself  with  a 
shyness  very  unusual  in  a  desert  place  where 
small  birds  have  never  been  persecuted  by  man. 
It  might  have  been  a  wren,  or  tree-creeper,  or 
reed-finch,  or  pipit;  I  could  not  tell,  so  jealously 
did  it  hide  all  its  pretty  secrets  from  me. 

The  sight  of  a  group  of  sand-hills,  some  two 
or  three  miles  to  our  right,  tempted  us  to  turn 
aside  from  the  narrow  path  we  had  followed  for 
upwards  of  six  hours:  from  the  summit  of  these 
hills  we  hoped  to  be  able  to  discover  the  end  of 
our  journey.  On  approaching  the  group  we  found 
that  it  formed  part  of  a  range  stretching  south 
and  north  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see.  Conclud- 
ing that  we  were  now  close  to  the  sea  once  more, 
we  agreed  that  our  best  plan  would  be,  after 
taking  a  refreshing  bath,  to  follow  the  beach  on  to 


AT  LAST,  PATAGONIA!  13 

the  mouth  of  the  Eio  Negro,  where  there  was  a 
pilot's  house.  An  hour's  walk  brought  us  to 
the  hill.  Climbing  to  the  top,  what  was  our  dis- 
may at  beholding  not  the  open  blue  Atlantic  we 
had  so  confidently  expected  to  see,  but  an  ocean  of 
barren  yellow  sand-hills,  extending  away  before 
us  to  where  earth  and  heaven  mingled  in  azure 
mist !  I,  however,  had  no  right  to  repine  now,  as 
I  had  set  out  that  morning  desirous  only  of  drink- 
ing from  that  wild  cup,  which  is  both  bitter  and 
sweet  to  the  taste.  But  I  was  certainly  the  great- 
est sufferer  that  day,  as  I  had  insisted  on  taking 
my  large  cloth  poncho,  and  it  proved  a  great  bur- 
den to  carry ;  then  my  feet  had  become  so  swollen 
and  painful,  through  wearing  heavy  riding  boots, 
that  I  was  at  last  compelled  to  pull  off  these  im- 
pediments, and  to  travel  barefooted  on  the  hot 
sand  and  gravel. 

Turning  our  backs  on  the  hills,  we  started, 
wearily  enough,  to  seek  the  trail  we  had  aban- 
doned, directing  our  course  so  as  to  strike  it 
three  or  four  miles  in  advance  of  the  point  where 
we  had  turned  aside.  Escaping  from  the  long 
grass  we  again  found  gravelly,  undulating  plains, 
with  scattered  dark-leafed  bushes,  and  troops  of 
little  singing  and  trilling  birds.  Armadilloes  were 
also  seen,  but  now  they  scuttled  across  our  path 
with  impunity,  for  we  had  no  inclination  to  chase 
them.  It  was  near  sunset  when  we  struck  the 
path  again;  but  although  we  had  now  been  over 
twelve  hours  walking  in  the  heat,  without  tasting 


14  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

food  or  water,  we  still  struggled  on.  Only  when 
it  grew  dark,  and  a  sudden  cold  wind  sprang  up 
from  the  sea,  making  us  feel  stiff  and  sore,  did 
we  finally  come  to  a  halt.  Wood  was  abundant, 
and  we  made  a  large  fire,  and  the  Italian  roasted 
the  two  armadilloes  he  had  patiently  been  carry- 
ing all  day.  They  smelt  very  tempting  when 
done ;  but  I  feared  that  the  fat  luscious  meat  would 
only  increase  the  torturing  thirst  I  suffered,  and 
so  while  the  others  picked  the  bones  I  solaced  my- 
self with  a  pipe,  sitting  in  pensive  silence  by 
the  fire.  Supper  done,  we  stretched  ourselves  out 
by  the  fire,  with  nothing  but  my  large  poncho  over 
us,  and  despite  the  hardness  of  our  bed  and  the 
cold  wind  blowing  over  us,  we  succeeded  in  getting 
some  refreshing  sleep. 

At  three  o  'clock  in  the  morning  we  were  up  and 
on  our  way  again,  drowsy  and  footsore,  but  for- 
tunately feeling  less  thirsty  than  on  the  previous 
day.  "When  we  had  been  walking  half  an  hour 
there  was  a  welcome  indication  of  the  approach  of 
day — not  in.  the  sky,  where  the  stars  were  still 
sparkling  with  midnight  brilliancy,  but  far  in  ad- 
vance of  us  a  little  bird  broke  out  into  a  song  mar- 
velously  sweet  and  clear.  The  song  was  repeated 
at  short  intervals,  and  by-and-by  it  was  taken  up 
by  other  voices,  until  from  every  bush  came  such 
soft  delicious  strains  that  I  was  glad  of  all  I 
had  gone  through  in  my  long  walk,  since  it  had 
enabled  me  to  hear  this  exquisite  melody  of  the 
desert.  This  early  morning  singer  is  a  charming 


AT  LAST,  PATAGONIA!  15 

gray  and  white  finch,  the  Diuca  minor,  very  com- 
mon in  Patagonia,  and  the  finest  voiced  of  all  the 
fringilline  birds  found  there;  and  that  is  saying 
a  great  deal.  The  diucas  were  sure  prophets: 
before  long  the  first  pale  streaks  of  light  appeared 
in  the  east,  but  when  the  light  grew  we  looked  in 
vain  for  the  long-wished  river.  The  sun  rose  on 
the  same  great  undulating  plain,  with  its  scat- 
tered somber  bushes  and  carpet  of  sere  grass — 
that  ragged  carpet  showing  beneath  it  the  barren 
sand  and  gravelly  soil  from  which  it  draws  its 
scanty  subsistence. 

For  upwards  of  six  hours  we  trudged  doggedly 
on  over  this  desert  plain,  suffering  much  from 
thirst  and  fatigue,  but  not  daring  to  give  ourselves 
rest.  At  length  the  aspect  of  the  country  began 
to  change :  we  were  approaching  the  river  settle- 
ment. The  scanty  grass  grew  scantier,  and  the 
scrubby  bushes  looked  as  if  they  had  been  browsed 
on;  our  narrow  path  was  also  crossed  at  all 
angles  by  cattle  tracks,  and  grew  fainter  as  we 
proceeded,  and  finally  disappeared  altogether.  A 
herd  of  cattle,  slowly  winding  their  way  in  long 
trains  towards  the  open  country,  was  then  seen. 
Here,  too,  a  pretty  little  tree  called  chanar  (Gur- 
liaca  decorticans),  began  to  get  common,  growing 
singly  or  in  small  groups.  It  was  about  ten  to 
sixteen  feet  high,  very  graceful,  with  smooth  pol- 
ished green  bole,  and  pale  gray-green  mimosa 
foliage.  It  bears  a  golden  fruit  as  big  as  a  cherry, 
with  a  peculiar  delightful  flavor,  but  it  was  not 


16  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

yet  the  season  for  ripe  fruits,  and  its  branches 
were  laden  only  with  the  great  nests  of  the  indus- 
trious woodman.  Though  it  was  now  the  end 
of  December  and  past  the  egg  season,  in  my  crav- 
ing for  a  drop  of  moisture  I  began  to  pull  down 
and  demolish  the  nests — no  light  task,  considering 
how  large  and  compactly  made  they  were.  I  was 
rewarded  for  my  pains  by  finding  three  little 
pearly-white  eggs,  and,  feeling  grateful  for  small 
mercies,  I  quickly  broke  them  on  my  parched 
tongue. 

Half  an  hour  later,  about  eleven  o'clock,  as  we 
slowly  dragged  on,  a  mounted  man  appeared  driv- 
ing a  small  troop  of  horses  towards  the  river. 
We  hailed  him,  and  he  rode  up  to  us,  and  informed 
us  that  we  were  only  about  a  mile  from  the  river, 
and  after  hearing  our  story  he  proceeded  to  catch 
horses  for  us  to  ride.  Springing  on  to  their  bare 
backs  we  followed  him  at  a  swinging  gallop  over 
that  last  happy  mile  of  our  long  journey. 

We  came  very  suddenly  to  the  end,  for  on 
emerging  from  the  thickets  of  dwarf  thorn  trees 
through  which  we  had  ridden  in  single  file  the 
magnificent  Eio  Negro  lay  before  us.  Never  river 
seemed  fairer  to  look  upon:  broader  than  the 
Thames  at  Westminster,  and  extending  away  on 
either  hand  until  it  melted  and  was  lost  in  the  blue 
horizon,  its  low  shores  clothed  in  all  the  glory  of 
groves  and  fruit  orchards  and  vineyards  and 
fields  of  ripening  maize.  Far  out  in  the  middle 
of  the  swift  blue  current  floated  flocks  of  black- 


CHANAR   TREES 


SERPENT   WITH   A    CROSS 


AT  LAST,  PATAGONIA!  17 

necked  swans,  their  white  plumage  shining  like 
foam  in  the  sunlight;  while  just  beneath  us, 
scarcely  a  stone's  throw  off,  stood  the  thatched 
farmhouse  of  our  conductor,  the  smoke  curling 
up  peacefully  from  the  kitchen  chimney.  A  grove 
of  large  old  cherry  trees,  in  which  the  house  was 
embowered,  added  to  the  charm  of  the  picture; 
and  as  we  rode  down  to  the  gate  we  noticed  the 
fully  ripe  cherries  glowing  like  live  coals  amid  the 
deep  green  foliage. 


CHAPTER  n 
HOW  I  BECAME  AN  IDLER 

IF  things  had  gone  well  with  me,  if  I  had  spent 
my  twelve  months  on  the  Rio  Negro,  as  I  had 
meant  to  do,  watching  and  listening  to  the  birds 
of  that  district,  these  desultory  chapters,  which 
might  be  described  as  a  record  of  what  I  did  not 
do,  would  never  have  been  written.  For  I  should 
have  been  wholly  occupied  with  my  special  task, 
moving  in  a  groove  too  full  of  delights  to  allow  of 
its  being  left,  even  for  an  occasional  run  and 
taste  of  liberty ;  and  seeing  one  class  of  objects  too 
well  would  have  made  all  others  look  distant,  ob- 
scure, and  of  little  interest.  But  it  was  not  to 
be  as  I  had  planned  it.  An  accident,  to  be  de- 
scribed by-and-by,  disabled  me  for  a  period,  and 
the  winged  people  could  no  longer  be  followed 
with  secret  steps  to  their  haunts,  and  their  actions 
watched  through  a  leafy  screen.  Lying  helpless 
on  my  back  through  the  long  sultry  midsummer 
days,  with  the  white-washed  walls  of  my  room  for 
landscape  and  horizon,  and  a  score  or  two  of  buz- 
zing house-flies,  perpetually  engaged  in  their  in- 
tricate airy  dance,  for  only  company,  I  was  forced 
to  think  on  a  great  variety  of  subjects,  and  to 

18 


HOW  I  BECAME  AN  IDLEE  19 

occupy  my  mind  with  other  problems  than  that  of 
migration.  These  other  problems,  too,  were  in 
many  ways  like  the  flies  that  shared  my  apart- 
ment, and  yet  always  remained  strangers  to  me, 
as  I  to  them,  since  between  their  minds  and  mine 
a  great  gulf  was  fixed.  Small  unpainful  riddles 
of  the  earth ;  flitting,  sylph-like  things,  that  began 
life  as  abstractions,  and  developed,  like  imago 
from  maggot,  into  entities:  I  always  flitting 
among  them,  as  they  performed  their  mazy  dance, 
whirling  in  circles,  falling  and  rising,  poised  mo- 
tionless, then  suddenly  cannoning  against  me  for 
an  instant,  mocking  my  power  to  grasp  them, 
and  darting  off  again  at  a  tangent.  Baffled  I 
would  drop  out  of  the  game,  like  a  tired  fly  that 
goes  back  to  his  perch,  but  like  the  resting,  restive 
fly  I  would  soon  turn  towards  them  again;  per- 
haps to  see  them  all  wheeling  in  a  closer  order, 
describing  new  fantastic  figures,  with  swifter  mo- 
tions, their  forms  turned  to  thin  black  lines,  cross- 
ing and  recrossing  in  every  direction,  as  if  they 
had  all  combined  to  write  a  series  of  strange  char- 
acters in  the  air,  all  forming  a  strange  sentence 
— the  secret  of  secrets !  Happily  for  the  progress 
of  knowledge  only  a  very  few  of  these  fascinating 
elusive  insects  of  the  brain  can  appear  before  us 
at  the  same  time:  as  a  rule  we  fix  our  attention 
on  a  single  individual,  like  a  falcon  amid  a  flight 
of  pigeons  or  a  countless  army  of  small  field 
finches ;  or  a  dragon-fly  in  the  thick  of  a  cloud  of 
mosquitoes,  or  infinitesimal  sand-flies.  Hawk  and 


20  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

dragon-fly  would  starve  if  they  tried  to  capture, 
or  even  regarded,  more  than  one  at  a  time. 

I  caught  nothing,  and  found  out  nothing ;  never- 
theless, these  days  of  enforced  idleness  were  not 
unhappy.  And  after  leaving  my  room,  hobbling 
round  with  the  aid  of  a  stout  stick,  and  sitting  in 
houses,  I  consorted  with  men  and  women,  and 
listened  day  by  day  to  the  story  of  their  small  un- 
avian  affairs,  until  it  began  to  interest  me.  But 
not  too  keenly.  I  could  always  quit  them  without 
regret  to  lie  on  the  green  sward,  to  gaze  up  into 
the  trees  or  the  blue  sky,  and  speculate  on  all  im- 
aginable things.  The  result  was  that  when  no 
longer  any  excuse  for  inaction  existed  use  had 
bred  a  habit  in  me — the  habit  of  indolence,  which 
was  quite  common  among  the  people  of  Patagonia, 
and  appeared  to  suit  the  genial  climate ;  and  this 
habit  and  temper  of  mind  I  retained,  with  occa- 
sional slight  relapses,  during  the  whole  period  of 
my  stay. 

Our  waking  life  is  sometimes  like  a  dream, 
which  proceeds  logically  enough  until  the  stimulus 
of  some  new  sensation,  from  without  or  within, 
throws  it  into  temporary  confusion,  or  suspends 
its  action ;  after  which  it  goes  on  again,  but  with 
fresh  characters,  passions,  and  motives,  and  a 
changed  argument. 

After  feasting  on  cherries,  and  resting  at  the 
estancia,  or  farm,  where  we  first  touched  the  shore, 
we  went  on  to  the  small  town  of  El  Carmen,  which 


HOW  I  BECAME  AN  IDLER  21 

has  existed  since  the  last  century,  and  is  built 
on  the  side  of  a  hill,  or  bluff,  facing  the  river.  On 
the  opposite  shore,  where  there  is  no  cliff  nor  high 
bank,  and  the  low  level  green  valley  extends  back 
four  or  five  miles  to  the  gray  barren  uplands, 
there  is  another  small  town  called  La  Merced.  In 
these  two  settlements  I  spent  about  a  fortnight, 
and  then,  in  company  with  a  young  Englishman, 
who  had  been  one  or  two  years  in  the  colony,  I 
started  for  an  eighty  miles'  ride  up  the  river. 
Half  way  to  our  destination  we  put  up  at  a  small 
log  hut,  which  my  companion  had  himself  built 
a  year  before;  but  finding,  too  late,  that  the 
ground  would  produce  nothing,  he  had  lately  aban- 
doned it,  leaving  his  tools  and  other  belongings 
locked  up  in  the  place. 

A  curious  home  and  repository  was  this  same 
little  rude  cabin.  The  interior  was  just  roomy 
enough  to  enable  a  man  of  my  height  (six  feet) 
to  stand  upright  and  swing  a  cat  in  without  knock- 
ing out  its  brains  against  the  upright  rough- 
barked  willow-posts  that  made  the  walls.  Yet 
within  this  limited  space  was  gathered  a  store  of 
weapons,  tackle,  and  tools,  sufficient  to  have  en- 
abled a  small  colony  of  men  to  fight  the  wilderness 
and  found  a  city  of  the  future.  My  friend  had 
an  ingenious  mind  and  an  amateur's  knowledge 
of  a  variety  of  handicrafts.  The  way  to  make  him 
happy  was  to  tell  him  that  you  had  injured  some- 
thing made  of  iron  or  brass — a  gun-lock,  watch,  or 
anything  complicated.  His  eyes  would  shine,  he 


22  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

would  rub  his  hands  and  be  all  eagerness  to  get 
at  the  new  patient  to  try  his  surgical  skill  on  him. 
Now  he  had  to  give  two  or  three  days  to  all  these 
wood  and  metal  friends  of  his,  to  give  a  fresh  edge 
to  his  chisels,  and  play  the  dentist  to  his  saws ;  to 
spread  them  all  out  and  count  and  stroke  them 
lovingly,  as  a  breeder  pats  his  beasties,  and  feed 
and  anoint  them  with  oil  to  make  them  shine  and 
look  glad.  This  was  preliminary  to  the  packing 
for  transportation,  which  was  also  a  rather  slow 
process. 

Leaving  my  friend  at  his  delightful  task  I  ram- 
bled about  the  neighborhood  taking  stock  of  the 
birds.  It  was  a  dreary  and  desolate  spot,  with 
a  few  old  gaunt  and  half-dead  red  willows  for 
only  trees.  The  reeds  and  rushes  standing  in  the 
black  stagnant  pools  were  yellow  and  dead;  and 
dead  also  were  the  tussocks  of  coarse  tow-colored 
grass,  while  the  soil  beneath  was  white  as  ashes 
and  cracked  everywhere  with  the  hot  suns  and 
long  drought.  Only  the  river  close  by  was  always 
cool  and  green  and  beautiful. 

At  length,  one  hot  afternoon,  we  were  sitting 
on  our  rugs  on  the  clay  floor  of  the  hut,  talking 
of  our  journey  on  the  morrow,  and  of  the  better 
fare  and  other  delights  we  should  find  at  the  end 
of  the  day  at  the  house  of  an  English  settler  we 
were  going  to  visit.  While  talking  I  took  up  his 
revolver  to  examine  it  for  the  first  time,  and  he 
had  just  begun  to  tell  me  that  it  was  a  revolver 
with  a  peculiar  character  of  its  own,  and  with 


HOW  I  BECAME  AN  IDLER  23 

idiosyncrasies,  one  of  which  was  that  the  slightest 
touch,  or  even  vibration  of  the  air,  would  cause  it 
to  go  off  when  on  the  cock — he  was  just  telling 
me  this,  when  off  it  went  with  a  terrible  bang  and 
sent  a  conical  bullet  into  my  left  knee,  an  inch  or 
so  beneath  the  knee-cap.  The  pain  was  not  much, 
the  sensation  resembling  that  caused  by  a  smart 
blow  on  the  knee;  but  on  attempting  to  get  up  I 
fell  back.  I  could  not  stand.  Then  the  blood 
began  to  flow  in  a  thin  but  continuous  stream 
from  the  round  symmetrical  bore  which  seemed  to 
go  straight  into  the  bone  of  the  joint,  and  nothing 
that  we  could  do  would  serve  to  stop  it.  Here 
we  were  in  a  pretty  fix !  Thirty-six  miles  from  the 
settlement,  and  with  no  conveyance  that  my  friend 
could  think  of  except  a  cart  at  a  house  several 
miles  up  the  river,  but  on  the  wrong  side!  He, 
however,  in  his  anxiety  to  do  something,  imagined, 
or  hoped,  that  by  some  means  the  cart  might  be 
got  over  the  river,  and  so,  after  thoughtfully  put- 
ting a  can  of  water  by  my  side,  he  left  me  lying 
on  my  saddle-rugs,  and,  after  fastening  the  door 
on  the  outside  to  prevent  the  intrusion  of  unwel- 
come prowlers,  he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode 
away.  He  had  promised  that,  with  or  without 
some  wheeled  thing,  he  would  be  back  not  long 
after  dark.  But  he  did  not  return  all  night;  he 
had  found  a  boat  and  boatman  to  transport  him 
to  the  other  side  only  to  learn  that  his  plan  was 
impracticable,  and  then  returning  with  the  disap- 
pointing tidings,  found  no  boat  to  recross,  and 


24  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

so  in  the  end  was  obliged  to  tie  his  horse  to  a 
bush  and  lie  down  to  wait  for  morning. 

For  me  night  came  only  too  soon.  I  had  no 
candle,  and  the  closed,  windowless  cabin  was  in- 
tensely dark.  My  wounded  leg  had  become  in- 
flamed and  pained  a  great  deal,  but  the  bleeding 
continued  until  the  handkerchiefs  we  had  bound 
round  it  were  saturated.  I  was  fully  dressed,  and 
as  the  night  grew  chilly  I  pulled  my  big  cloth 
poncho,  that  had  a  soft  fluffy  lining,  over  me  for 
warmth.  I  soon  gave  up  expecting  my  friend, 
and  knew  that  there  would  be  no  relief  until  morn- 
ing. But  I  could  neither  doze  nor  think,  and  could 
only  listen.  From  my  experience  during  those 
black  anxious  hours  I  can  imagine  how  much  the 
sense  of  hearing  must  be  to  the  blind  and  to  ani- 
mals that  exist  in  dark  caves.  At  length,  about 
midnight,  I  was  startled  by  a  slight  curious  sound 
in  the  intense  silence  and  darkness.  It  was  in  the 
cabin  and  close  to  me.  I  thought  at  first  it  was  like 
the  sound  made  by  a  rope  drawn  slowly  over  the 
clay  floor.  I  lighted  a  wax  match,  but  the  sound 
had  ceased,  and  I  saw  nothing.  After  awhile  I 
heard  it  again,  but  it  now  seemed  to  be  out  of 
doors  and  going  round  the  hut,  and  I  paid  little 
attention  to  it.  It  soon  ceased,  and  I  heard  it 
no  more.  So  silent  and  dark  was  it  thereafter  that 
the  hut  I  reposed  in  might  have  been  a  roomy  cof- 
fin in  which  I  had  been  buried  a  hundred  feet  be- 
neath the  surface  of  the  earth.  Yet  I  was  no 
longer  alone,  if  I  had  only  known  it,  but  had  now 


HOW  I  BECAME  AN  IDLER  25 

a  messmate  and  bedfellow  who  had  subtly  crept  in 
to  share  the  warmth  of  the  cloak  and  of  my  per- 
son— one  with  a  broad  arrow-shaped  head,  set 
with  round  lidless  eyes  like  polished  yellow  peb- 
bles, and  a  long  smooth  limbless  body,  strangely 
segmented  and  vaguely  written  all  over  with  mys- 
tic characters  in  some  dusky  tint  on  an  indetermi- 
nate grayish-tawny  ground. 

At  length,  about  half -past  three  to  four  o'clock 
a  most  welcome  sound  was  heard — the  familiar 
twittering  of  a  pair  of  scissor-tail  tyrant  birds 
from  a  neighboring  willow-tree;  and  after  an  in- 
terval, the  dreamy,  softly  rising  and  falling, 
throaty  warblings  of  the  white-rumped  swallow. 
A  loved  and  beautiful  bird  is  this,  that  utters  his 
early  song  circling  round  and  round  in  the  dusky 
air,  when  the  stars  begin  to  pale;  and  his  song, 
perhaps,  seems  sweeter  than  all  others,  because 
it  corresponds  in  time  to  that  rise  in  the  tempera- 
ture and  swifter  flow  of  the  blood — the  inward 
resurrection  experienced  on  each  morning  of  our 
individual  life.  Next  in  order  the  red-billed 
finches  begin  to  sing — a  curious,  gobbling,  impetu- 
ous performance,  more  like  a  cry  than  a  song. 
These  are  pretty  reed  birds,  olive-green,  buff- 
breasted,  with  long  tails  and  bright  red  beaks. 
The  intervals  between  their  spasmodic  bursts  of 
sound  were  filled  up  with  the  fine  frail  melody  of 
the  small  brown  and  gray  crested  song-sparrows. 
Last  of  all  was  heard  the  long,  leisurely-uttered 
chanting  cry  of  the  brown  carrion-hawk,  as  he 


26  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

flew  past,  and  I  knew  that  the  morning  was  beau- 
tiful in  the  east.  Little  by  little  the  light  began  to 
appear  through  the  crevices,  faint  at  first,  like 
faintly-traced  pallid  lines  on  a  black  ground,  then 
brighter  and  broader  until  I,  too,  had  a  dim  twi- 
light in  the  cabin. 

Not  until  the  sun  was  an  hour  up  did  my  friend 
return  to  me  to  find  me  hopeful  still,  and  with  all 
my  faculties  about  me,  but  unable  to  move  without 
assistance.  Putting  his  arms  around  me  he  helped 
me  up,  and  just  as  I  had  got  erect  on  my  sound 
leg,  leaning  heavily  on  him,  out  from  beneath  the 
poncho  lying  at  my  feet  glided  a  large  serpent  of 
a  venomous  kind,  the  Craspedocephalus  alterna- 
tus,  called  in  the  vernacular  the  serpent  with  a 
cross.  Had  my  friend's  arms  not  been  occupied 
with  sustaining  me  he,  no  doubt,  would  have  at- 
tacked it  with  the  first  weapon  that  offered,  and 
in  all  probability  killed  it,  with  the  result  that  I 
should  have  suffered  from  a  kind  of  vicarious 
remorse  ever  after.  Fortunately  it  was  not  long 
in  drawing  its  coils  out  of  sight  and  danger  into  a 
hole  in  the  wall.  My  hospitality  had  been  uncon- 
scious, nor,  until  that  moment,  had  I  known  that 
something  had  touched  me,  and  that  virtue  had 
gone  out  from  me;  but  I  rejoice  to  think  that 
the  secret  deadly  creature,  after  lying  all  night 
with  me,  warming  its  chilly  blood  with  my  warmth, 
went  back  unbruised  to  its  den. 

Speaking  of  this  serpent  with  a  strange  name, 
I  recall  the  fact  that  Darwin  made  its  acquaint- 


HOW  I  BECAME  AN  IDLER  27 

ance  during  his  Patagonian  rambles  about  sixty 
years  ago;  and  in  describing  its  fierce  and  hide- 
ous aspect,  remarks,  "I  do  not  think  I  ever  saw 
anything  more  ugly,  excepting,  perhaps,  some  of 
the  vampire  bats."  He  speaks  of  the  great 
breadth  of  the  jaws  at  the  base,  the  triangular 
snout,  and  the  linear  pupil  in  the  midst  of  the 
mottled  coppery  iris,  and  suggests  that  its  ugly 
and  horrible  appearance  is  due  to  the  resemblance 
of  its  face,  in  its  shape,  to  the  human  countenance. 
This  idea  of  the  ugliness  or  repulsiveness  of 
an  inferior  animal,  due  to  its  resemblance  to  man 
in  face,  is  not,  I  believe,  uncommon ;  and  I  suppose 
that  the  reason  that  would  be  given  for  the  feeling 
is  that  an  animal  of  that  kind  looks  like  a  vile 
copy  of  ourselves,  or  like  a  parody  maliciously 
designed  to  mock  us.  It  is  an  erroneous  idea,  or, 
at  all  events,  is  only  a  half-truth,  as  we  recognize 
at  once  when  we  look  at  animals  that  are  more 
or  less  human-like  in  countenance,  and  yet  cause 
no  repulsion.  Seals  may  be  mentioned — the  mer- 
maids and  mermen  of  the  old  mariners;  also  the 
sloth  with  its  round  simple  face,  to  which  its  hu- 
man shape  imparts  a  somewhat  comical  and  pa- 
thetic look.  Many  monkeys  seem  ugly  to  us,  but 
we  think  the  lemurs  beautiful,  and  greatly  admire 
the  marmosets,  those  hairy  manikins  with  spright- 
ly, bird-like  eyes.  And  yet  it  is  true  that  there 
is  something  human  in  the  faces  of  this  and  per- 
haps of  other  pit-vipers,  and  of  some  vampire  bats, 
as  Darwin  remarks;  and  that  the  horror  they 


28  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

excite  in  us  is  due  to  this  resemblance;,  what  he 
failed  to  see  was  that  it  is  the  expression  rather 
than  the  shape  that  horrifies.  For  in  these  crea- 
tures it  simulates  such  expressions  as  excite  fear 
and  abhorrence  in  our  own  species,  or  pity  so 
intense  as  to  be  painful — ferocity,  stealthy,  watch- 
ful malignity,  a  set  look  of  anguish  or  despair,  or 
some  dreadful  form  of  insanity.  Some  one  has 
well  and  wisely  said  that  there  is  no  ugliness  in 
us  except  the  expression  of  evil  thoughts  and 
passions ;  for  these  do  most  assuredly  write  them- 
selves on  the  countenance.  Looking  at  a  serpent 
of  this  kind,  and  I  have  looked  at  many  a  one,  the 
fancy  is  born  in  me  that  I  am  regarding  what 
was  once  a  fellow-being,  perhaps  one  of  those 
cruel  desperate  wretches  I  have  encountered  on 
the  outskirts  of  civilization,  who  for  his  crimes  has 
been  changed  into  the  serpent  form,  and  cursed 
with  immortality. 

As  a  rule  the  deceptive  resemblances  and  self- 
plagiarisms  of  nature,  when  we  light  by  chance  on 
them,  give  us  only  pleasure,  heightened  by  wonder 
or  a  sense  of  mystery;  but  the  case  of  this  ser- 
pent forms  an  exception:  in  spite  of  the  tender- 
ness I  cherish  towards  the  entire  ophidian  race, 
the  sensation  is  not  agreeable. 

To  return.  My  friend  made  a  fire  to  boil  water, 
and  after  we  had  had  some  breakfast,  he  galloped 
off  once  more  in  a  new  direction;  he  had  at  last 
remembered  that  on  our  side  of  the  river  there 


HOW  I  BECAME  AN  IDLER  29 

lived  a  settler  who  owned  a  bullock-cart,  and  to 
him  he  went.  About  ten  o  'clock  he  returned,  and 
was  shortly  followed  by  the  man  with  his  lum- 
bering cart  drawn  by  a  couple  of  bullocks.  In 
this  conveyance,  suffering  much  from  the  heat  and 
dust  and  joltings  on  the  rough  hard  road,  I  was 
carried  back  to  the  settlement.  Oxen  travel  slowly, 
and  we  were  on  the  road  all  day  and  all  night,  and 
only  reached  our  destination  when  the  eastern  sky 
had  begun  to  grow  bright,  and  the  swallows  from 
a  thousand  roosting-places  were  rising  in  wide 
circles  into  the  still,  dusky  air,  making  it  vocal 
with  their  warblings. 

My  miserable  journey  ended  at  the  Mission 
House  of  the  South  American  Missionary  Society, 
in  the  village  on  the  south  bank  of  the  river,  fac- 
ing the  old  town;  and  the  change  from  the  jolting 
cart  to  a  comfortable  bed  was  an  unspeakable 
relief,  and  soon  induced  refreshing  sleep.  Later 
in  the  day,  on  awakening,  I  found  myself  in  the 
hands  of  a  gentleman  who  was  a  skillful  surgeon 
as  well  as  a  divine,  one  who  had  extracted  more 
bullets  and  mended  broken  bones  than  most  sur- 
geons who  do  not  practise  on  battle-fields.  My 
bullet,  however,  refused  to  be  extracted,  or  even 
found  in  its  hiding-place,  and  every  morning  for 
a  fortnight  I  had  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour,  when 
my  host  would  present  himself  in  my  room  with 
a  quiet  smile  on  his  lips  and  holding  in  his  hands 
a  bundle  of  probes — oh,  those  probes! — of  all 
forms,  sizes,  and  materials — wood,  ivory,  steel, 


30  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

and  gutta-percha.  These  painful  moments  over, 
with  no  result  except  the  re-opening  of  a  wound 
that  wished  to  heal,  there  would  be  nothing  more 
for  me  to  do  but  to  lie  watching  the  flies,  as  I  have 
said,  and  dreaming. 

To  conclude  this  vari-colored  chapter,  I  may 
here  remark  that  some  of  the  happiest  moments 
of  my  life  have  been  occasioned  by  those  very  cir- 
cumstances which  one  would  imagine  would  have 
made  me  most  unhappy — by  grave  accidents,  and 
sickness,  which  have  disabled  and  cast  me  a  bur- 
den upon  strangers;  and  by  adversity, — 

Which,  like  a  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Yet  wears  a  precious  jewel  in  its  head. 

Familiar  words,  but  here  newly  interpreted;  for 
this  jewel  which  I  have  found — man's  love  for 
man,  and  the  law  of  helpful  kindness  written  in 
the  heart — is  worthy  to  be  prized  above  all  our 
possessions,  and  is  most  beautiful,  outshining  the 
lapidary's  gems,  and  of  so  sovereign  a  virtue  that 
cynicism  itself  grows  mute  and  ashamed  in  its 
light. 


CHAPTER  HI 
VALLEY  OF  THE  BLACK  RIVER 

STILL  a  lingerer  in  the  hospitable  shade  of 
the  Mission  House,  my  chief  pleasure  during 
th~e  early  days  of  February  was  in  observing  the 
autumnal  muster  of  the  purple  swallows — Progne 
furcata — a  species  which  was  abundant  at  this 
point,  breeding  in  the  cliffs  overhanging  the  river ; 
also,  like  so  many  other  swallows  in  all  places, 
ander  the  eaves  of  houses.  It  is  a  large,  beautiful 
bird,  its  whole  upper  plumage  of  a  rich,  glossy, 
deep  purple  hue,  its  under  surface  black.  No  such 
large  swallows  as  this,  with  other  members  of  its 
genus,  are  known  in  the  Old  World ;  and  a  visitor 
from  Europe  would  probably,  on  first  seeing  one 
of  these  birds,  mistake  it  for  a  swift;  but  it  has 
not  got  the  narrow,  scythe-shaped  wings  of  the 
swift,  nor  does  it  rush  through  the  air  in  the 
swift's  mad  way;  on  the  contrary,  its  flight  is 
much  calmer,  with  fewer  quick  doublings  than 
that  of  other  swallows.  It  also  differs  from  most 
members  of  its  family  in  possessing  a  set  song  of 
several  modulated  notes,  which  are  occasionally 
warbled  in  a  leisurely  manner  as  the  bird  soars 
high  in  the  air :  as  a  melodist  it  should  rank  high 
among  the  hirundines. 

31 


32  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

The  trees  of  the  Mission  House  proved  very 
attractive  to  these  birds ;  the  tall  Lombardy  pop- 
lars were  specially  favored,  which  seems  strange, 
for  in  a  high  wind  (and  it  was  very  windy  just 
then)  the  slim  unresting  tree  forms  as  bad  a 
perching-place  as  a  bird  could  well  settle  on. 
Nevertheless,  to  the  poplars  they  would  come 
when  the  wind  was  most  violent;  first  hovering 
or  wheeling  about  in  an  immense  flock,  then,  as  oc- 
casion offered,  dropping  down,  a  few  at  a  time,  to 
cling,  like  roosting  locusts,  to  the  thin  vertical 
branches,  clustering  thicker  and  thicker  until  the 
high  trees  looked  black  with  them ;  then  a  mightier 
gust  would  smite  and  sway  the  tall  tops  down,  and 
the  swallows,  blown  from  their  insecure  perch, 
would  rise  in  a  purple  cloud  to  scatter  chattering 
all  over  the  windy  heavens,  only  to  return  and 
congregate,  hovering  and  clinging  as  before. 

Lying  on  the  grass,  close  to  the  river  bank,  I 
would  watch  them  by  the  hour,  noting  their  unrest 
and  indecision,  the  strangeness  and  wild  spirit 
that  made  the  wind  and  vexed  poplars  congenial 
to  them ;  for  something  new  and  strange  had  come 
to  trouble  them — the  subtle  breath 


That  in  a  po./erful  language,  felt,  not  heard, 
Instructs  the  fowls  of  heaven. 


But  as  to  the  character  of  that  breath  I  vainly 
questioned  Nature, — she  being  the  only  woman 
who  can  keep  a  secret,  even  from  a  lover. 


SWALLOWS    CONGREGATING 


Rain  cam  at  last',  and  fell  continuously  during 
an  entire  night.  Next  morning  (February  14th) 
when  I  went  out  and  looked  up  at  the  sky,  covered 
with  gray  hurrying  clouds,  I  saw  a  flock  of  forty 
or  fifty  large  swallows  speeding  north ;  and  after 
these  I  saw  no  more ;  for  on  that  first  wet  morn- 
ing, before  I  had  risen,  the  purple  cloud  had  for- 
saken the  valley. 

I  missed  them  greatly,  and  wished  that  they 
had  delayed  their  going,  since  it  was  easier  and 
more  hopeful  to  ponder  on  the  mystery  of  their 
instinct  when  they  were  with  me.  That  break  in 
the  tenor  of  their  lives;  the  enforced  change  of 
habits ;  the  conflict  between  two  opposite  emotions 
— the  ties  of  place  that  held  them  back,  seen  and 
guessed  in  their  actions,  and  the  voice  that  called 
them  away,  speaking  ever  more  imperatively, 
which  so  wrought  in  them  that  at  moments  they 
were  beside  themselves — noting  all  this,  hearing 
and  seeing  it  at  all  hours  of  the  day,  I  seemed  to 
be  nearer  to  the  discovery  of  some  hidden  truth 
than  when  they  were  no  longer  in  sight.  But  now 
they  were  gone,  and  with  their  departure  had  van- 
ished my  last  excuse  for  resting  longer  inactive — 
at  that  spot,  at  all  events. 

I  started  afresh  on  my  up-river  journey,  and 
paid  a  long  visit  to  an  English  estancia  about 
sixty  miles  from  the  town.  I  spent  much  of  my 
time  there  in  solitary  rambles,  tasting  once  more 
of  the  "sweet  and  bitter  cup  of  wild  Nature." 
Her  color  was  gray,  her  mood  pensive  as  winter 


34  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

deepened,  and  there  was  nothing  in  the  cup  to  in- 
flame the  fancy.  But  it  was  tonic.  My  rides  were 
often  to  the  hills,  or  terraced  uplands,  outside  of 
the  level  valley;  but  my  description  of  that  gray 
desolate  solitude  and  its  effects  on  me  must  be 
reserved  for  a  later  chapter,  when  I  shall  have 
dropped  once  for  all  this  thread  of  narrative, 
slight  and  loosely  held  as  it  is.  In  the  present 
chapter  and  the  succeeding  one  I  shall  treat  of 
the  aspects  of  nature  in  the  valley  itself.  For  I 
did  not  remain  too  long  at  any  one  point,  but  dur- 
ing the  autumn,  winter,  and  spring  months  I  re- 
sided at  various  points,  and  visited  the  mouth  of 
the  river  and  adjacent  plains  on  both  sides,  then 
went  up  river  again  to  a  distance  of  something 
over  a  hundred  miles. 

The  valley,  in  this  space,  does  not  vary  much 
in  appearance;  it  may  be  described  as  the  level 
bed  of  an  ancient  river,  five  or  six  miles  wide,  cut 
out  in  the  plateau,  with  the  existing  river — a  swift, 
deep  stream,  two  hundred  to  three  hundred  yards 
broad — serpentining  along  its  middle.  But  it 
does  not  keep  to  the  middle;  in  its  windings  it 
approaches  now  the  north,  now  the  south,  plateau, 
and  at  some  points  touches  the  extreme  limits  of 
the  valley,  and  even  cuts  into  the  bank-like  front 
of  the  high  land,  which  forms  a  sheer  cliff  above 
the  current,  in  some  spots  a  hundred  feet  high. 

The  river  was  certainly  miscalled  Cusar-leofu, 
or  Black  Eiver,  by  the  aborigines,  unless  the 
epithet  referred  only  to  its  swiftness  and  danger- 


VALLEY  OF  THE  BLACK  RIVER      35 

ous  character ;  for  it  is  not  black  at  all  in  appear- 
ance, like  its  Amazonian  namesake.  The  water, 
which  flows  from  the  Andes  across  a  continent  of 
stone  and  gravel,  is  wonderfully  pure,  in  color 
a  clear  sea-green.  So  green  does  it  look  to  the 
eye  in  some  lights  that  when  dipped  up  in  a  glass 
vessel  one  marvels  to  see  it  changed,  no  longer 
green,  but  crystal  as  dew  or  rain  drop.  Doubtless 
man  is  naturally  scientific,  and  finds  out  why 
things  are  not  what  they  seem,  and  gets  to  the 
bottom  of  all  mysteries;  but  his  older,  deeper, 
primitive,  still  persistent  nature  is  non-scientific 
and  mythical,  and,  in  spite  of  reason,  he  wonders 
at  the  change ; — it  is  a  miracle,  a  manifestation  of 
the  intelligent  life  and  power  that  is  in  all  things. 

The  river  has  its  turbid  days,  although  few  and 
far  between.  One  morning,  on  going  down  to  the 
water,  I  was  astonished  to  find  it  no  longer  the 
lovely  hue  of  the  previous  evening,  but  dull  red — 
red  with  the  red  earth  that  some  swollen  tributary 
hundreds  of  miles  to  the  west  had  poured  into  its 
current.  This  change  lasts  only  a  day  or  two, 
after  which  the  river  runs  green  and  pure  again. 

The  valley  at  the  end  of  a  long  hot  windy  sum- 
mer had  an  excessively  dry  and  barren  appear- 
ance. The  country,  I  was  told,  had  suffered  from 
scarcity  of  rain  for  three  years:  at  some  points 
even  the  roots  of  the  dry  dead  grass  had  been 
blown  away,  and  when  the  wind  was  strong  a 
cloud  of  yellow  dust  hung  all  day  over  the  valley. 
In  such  places  sheep  were  dying  of  starvation: 


36  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

cattle  and  horses  fared  better,  as  they  went  out 
into  the  uplands  to  browse  on  the  bushes.  The 
valley  soil  is  thin,  being  principally  sand  and 
gravel,  with  a  slight  admixture  of  vegetable 
mold ;  and  its  original  vegetation  was  made  up  of 
coarse  perennial  grasses,  herbaceous  shrubs  and 
rushes:  the  domestic  cattle  introduced  by  the 
white  settlers  destroyed  these  slow-growing 
grasses  and  plants,  and,  as  has  happened  in  most 
temperate  regions  of  the  globe  colonized  by  Euro- 
peans, the  sweet,  quick-growing,  short-lived 
grasses  and  clovers  of  the  Old  World  sprang  up 
and  occupied  the  soil.  Here,  however,  owing  to 
its  poverty,  the  excessive  dryness  of  the  climate, 
and  the  violence  of  the  winds  that  prevail  in  sum- 
mer, the  new  imported  vegetation  has  proved  but 
a  sorry  substitute  for  the  old  and  vanished.  It 
does  not  grow  large  enough  to  retain  the  scanty 
moisture,  it  is  too  short-lived,  and  the  frail 
quickly-perishing  rootlets  do  not  bind  the  earth 
together,  like  the  tough  fibrous  blanket  formed 
by  the  old  grasses.  The  heat  burns  it  to  dust  and 
ashes,  the  wind  blows  it  away,  blade  and  root,  and 
the  surface  soil  with  it,  in  many  places  disclosing 
the  yellow  underlying  sand  with  all  that  was 
buried  in  it  of  old.  For  the  result  of  this  strip- 
ping of  the  surface  has  been  that  the  sites  of 
numberless  villages  of  the  former  inhabitants  of 
the  valley  have  been  brought  to  light.  I  have 
visited  a  dozen  such  village  sites  in  the  course 
of  one  hour's  walk,  so  numerous  were  they. 


VALLEY  OF  THE  BLACK  EIVEE      37 

Where  the  village  had  been  a  populous  one,  or 
inhabited  for  a  long  period,  the  ground  was  a 
perfect  bed  of  chipped  stones,  and  among  these 
fragments  were  found  arrow-heads,  flint  knives 
and  scrapers,  mortars  and  pestles,  large  round 
stones  with  a  groove  in  the  middle,  pieces  of  hard 
polished  stone  used  as  anvils,  perforated  shells, 
fragments  of  pottery,  and  bones  of  animals.  My 
host  remarked  one  day  that  the  valley  that  year 
had  produced  nothing  but  a  plentiful  crop  of  ar- 
row-heads. The  anthropologist  could  not  have 
wished  for  a  more  favorable  year  or  for  a  better 
crop.  I  collected  a  large  number  of  these  objects; 
and  some  three  or  four  hundred  arrow-heads 
which  I  picked  up  are  at  present,  I  believe,  in  the 
famous  Pitt-Rivers  collection.  But  I  was  over- 
careful.  The  finest  of  my  treasures,  the  most  curi- 
ous and  beautiful  objects  I  could  select,  packed 
apart  for  greater  safety,  were  unfortunately  lost 
in  transit — a  severe  blow,  which  hurt  me  more 
than  the  wound  I  had  received  on  the  knee. 

At  some  of  the  villages  I  examined,  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  ground  where  the  huts  had  stood,  I 
found  deposits  of  bones  of  animals  that  had  been 
used  as  food.  These  were  of  the  rhea,  huanaco, 
deer,  peccary,  dolichotis  or  Patagonian  hare,  ar- 
madillo, coypu,  vizcacha,  with  others  of  smaller 
mammals  and  birds.  Most  numerous  among  them 
were  the  bones  of  the  small  cavy  (Cavia  australis), 
a  form  of  the  guinea-pig;  and  of  the  tuco-tuco 


38  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

(Ctenomys  magellanica),  a  small  rodent  with  the 
habits  of  the  mole. 

A  most  interesting  fact  was  that  the  arrow- 
heads I  picked  up  in  different  villages  were  of 
two  widely  different  kinds — the  large  and  rudely 
fashioned,  resembling  the  Palaeolithic  arrow-heads 
of  Europe,  and  the  highly-finished,  or  Neolithic, 
arrow-heads  of  various  forms  and  sizes,  but  in 
most  specimens  an  inch  and  a  half  to  two  inches 
long.  Here  there  were  the  remains  of  the  two 
great  periods  of  the  Stone  Age,  the  last  of  which 
continued  down  till  the  discovery  and  colonization 
of  the  country  by  Europeans.  The  weapons  and 
other  objects  of  the  latter  period  were  the  most 
abundant,  and  occurred  in  the  valley:  the  ruder 
more  ancient  weapons  were  found  on  the  hill-sides, 
in  places  where  the  river  cuts  into  the  plateau. 
The  site  where  I  picked  up  the  largest  number 
had  been  buried  to  a  depth  of  seven  or  eight  feet ; 
only  where  the  water  after  heavy  rains  had  washed 
great  masses  of  sand  and  gravel  away,  the  arrow- 
heads, with  other  weapons  and  implements,  had 
been  exposed.  These  deeply-buried  settlements 
were  doubtless  very  ancient. 

Coming  back  to  the  more  modern  work,  I  was 
delighted  to  find  traces  of  a  something  like  division 
of  labor  in  different  villages ;  of  the  individuality 
of  the  worker,  and  a  distinct  artistic  or  esthetic 
taste.  I  was  led  to  this  conclusion  by  the  dis- 
covery of  a  village  site  where  no  large  round 
stones,  knives  and  scrapers  were  found,  and  no 


VALLEY  OF  THE  BLACK  RIVER      39 

large  arrow-heads  of  the  usual  type.  The  only 
arrow-heads  at  this  spot  were  about  half  an  inch 
long,  and  were  probably  used  only  to  shoot  small 
birds  and  mammals.  Not  only  were  they  minute 
but  most  exquisitely  finished,  with  a  fine  serration, 
and,  without  an  exception,  made  of  some  beauti- 
ful stone — crystal,  agate,  and  green,  yellow,  and 
horn-colored  flint.  It  was  impossible  to  take  half- 
a-dozen  of  these  gems  of  color  and  workmanship 
in  the  hand  and  not  be  impressed  at  once  with  the 
idea  that  beauty  had  been  as  much  an  aim  to  the 
worker  as  utility.  Along  with  these  fine  arrow- 
heads I  found  nothing  except  one  small  well- 
pointed  dagger  of  red  stone,  its  handle  a  cross, 
about  four  inches  long,  and  as  slender  and  almost 
as  well-rounded  as  an  ordinary  lead  pencil. 

"When  on  this  quest  I  sometimes  attempted  to 
picture  to  myself  something  of  the  outer  and 
inner  life  of  the  long-vanished  inhabitants.  The 
red  men  of  to-day  may  be  of  the  same  race  and 
blood,  the  lineal  descendants  of  the  workers  in 
stone  in  Patagonia;  but  they  are  without  doubt 
so  changed,  and  have  lost  so  much,  that  their  pro- 
genitors would  not  know  them,  nor  acknowledge 
them  as  relations.  Here,  as  in  North  America, 
contact  with  a  superior  race  has  debased  them 
and  ensured  their  destruction.  Some  of  their  wild 
blood  will  continue  to  flow  in  the  veins  of  those 
who  have  taken  their  place ;  but  as  a  race  they  will 
be  blotted  out  from  earth,  as  utterly  extinct  in  a 
few  decades  as  the  mound-makers  of  the  Missis- 


40  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

sippi  valley,  and  the  races  that  built  the  forest- 
grown  cities  of  Yucatan  and  Central  America. 
The  men  of  the  past  in  the  Patagonian  valley  were 
alone  with  nature,  makers  of  their  own  weapons 
and  self-sustaining,  untouched  by  any  outside  in- 
fluence, and  with  no  knowledge  of  any  world  be- 
yond their  valley  and  the  adjacent  uninhabited 
uplands.  And  yet,  judging  even  from  that  dim 
partial  glimpse  I  had  had  of  their  vanished  life, 
in  the  weapons  and  fragments  I  had  picked  up,  it 
seemed  evident  that  the  mind  was  not  wholly  dor- 
mant in  them,  and  that  they  were  slowly  pro- 
gressing to  a  higher  condition. 

Beyond  that  fact  I  could  not  go:  all  efforts  to 
know  more,  or  to  imagine  more,  ended  in  failure, 
as  all  such  efforts  must  end.  On  another  occa- 
sion, as  I  propose  to  show  in  a  later  chapter,  the 
wished  vision  of  the  past  came  unsought  and  un- 
expectedly to  me,  and  for  a  while  I  saw  nature 
as  the  savage  sees  it,  and  as  he  saw  it  in  that 
stone  age  I  pondered  over,  only  without  the  super- 
naturalism  that  has  so  large  a  place  in  his  mind. 
By  taking  thought  I  am  convinced  that  we  can 
make  no  progress  in  this  direction,  simply  because 
we  cannot  voluntarily  escape  from  our  own  per- 
sonality, our  environment,  our  outlook  on  Na- 
ture. 

Not  only  were  my  efforts  idle,  but  merely  to 
think  on  the  subject  sometimes  had  the  effect  of 
bringing  a  shadow,  a  something  of  melancholy, 
over  my  mind,  the  temper  which  is  fatal  to  inves- 


AN    INDIAN   BURIAL-PLACE 


VALLEY  OF  THE  BLACK  RIVER       41 

tigation,  causing  "all  things  to  droop  and  lan- 
guish. ' '  In  such  a  mood  I  would  make  my  way  to 
one  of  the  half-a-dozen  ancient  burial-places  ex- 
isting in  the  neighborhood  of  the  house  I  was 
staying  at.  As  a  preference  I  would  go  to  the 
largest  and  most  populous,  where  half  an  acre 
of  earth  was  strewn  thick  with  crumbling  skele- 
tons. Here  by  searching  closely  a  few  arrow- 
heads and  ornaments,  that  had  been  interred  with 
the  dead,  could  also  be  found.  And  here  I  would 
sit  and  walk  about  on  the  hot  barren  yellow  sand — 
the  faithless  sand  to  which  the  bitter  secret  had 
so  long  ago  been  vainly  entrusted ;  careful  in  walk- 
ing not  to  touch  an  exposed  skull  with  my  foot,  al- 
though the  hoof  of  the  next  wild  thing  that  passed 
would  shatter  it  to  pieces  like  a  vessel  of  fragile 
glass.  The  polished  intensely  white  surfaces  of 
such  skulls  as  had  been  longest  exposed  to  the  sun 
reflected  the  noonday  light  so  powerfully  that  it 
almost  pained  the  eyes  to  look  at  them.  In  places 
where  they  were  thickly  crowded  together,  I  would 
stop  to  take  them  up  and  examine  them,  one  by 
one,  only  to  put  them  carefully  down  again;  and 
sometimes  holding  one  in  my  hand,  I  would  pour 
out  the  yellow  sand  that  filled  its  cavity;  and 
watching  the  shining  stream  as  it  fell,  only  the 
vainest  of  vain  thoughts  and  conjectures  were 
mine. 


CHAPTER  IV 
ASPECTS  OF  THE  VALLEY 

TO  go  back  for  a  brief  space  to  those  Golgothas 
that  I  frequently  visited  in  the  valley,  not 
as  collector  nor  archaeologist,  and  in  no  scientific 
spirit,  but  only,  as  it  seemed,  to  indulge  in  mourn- 
ful thoughts.  If  by  looking  into  the  empty  cavity 
of  one  of  those  broken  unburied  skulls  I  had  been 
able  to  see,  as  in  a  magic  glass,  an  image  of  the 
world  as  it  once  existed  in  the  living  brain,  what 
should  I  have  seen?  Such  a  question  would  not 
and  could  not,  I  imagine,  be  suggested  by  the  sight 
of  a  bleached  broken  human  skull  in  any  other 
region;  but  in  Patagonia  it  does  not  seem  gro- 
tesque, nor  merely  idle,  nor  quite  fanciful,  like 
Buff on's  notion  of  a  geometric  figure  impressed 
on  the  hive-bee 's  brain.  On  the  contrary,  it  strikes 
one  there  as  natural ;  and  the  answer  to  it  is  easy, 
and  only  one  answer  is  possible. 

In  the  cavity,  extending  from  side  to  side,  there 
would  have  appeared  a  band  of  color ;  its  margins 
gray,  growing  fainter  and  bluer  outwardly,  and 
finally  fading  into  nothing;  between  the  gray 
edges  the  band  would  be  green;  and  along  this 
green  middle  band,  not  always  keeping  to  the 

42 


THE   RIVER   BY    MOONLIGHT 


SNOW    AT    EL    CAKAIEN 


ASPECTS  OF  THE  VALLEY  43 

center,  there  would  appear  a  sinuous  shiny  line, 
like  a  serpent  with  glittering  skin  lying  at  rest 
on  the  grass.  For  the  river  must  have  been  to 
the  aboriginal  inhabitants  of  the  valley  the  one 
great  central  unforgettable  fact  in  nature  and 
man's  life.  If  as  nomads  or  colonists  from  some 
cis-  or  trans- Andean  country,  they  had  originally 
brought  hither  traditions,  and  some  supernatural 
system  that  took  its  form  and  color  from  a  differ- 
ent nature,  these  had  been  modified,  if  not  wholly 
dissolved  and  washed  away  in  that  swift  eternal 
green  current,  by  the  side  of  which  they  con- 
tkiued  to  dwell  from  generation  to  generation, 
forgetting  all  ancient  things.  The  shining  stream 
was  always  in  sight,  and  when,  turning  their 
backs  on  it,  they  climbed  out  of  the  valley,  they 
saw  only  gray  desolation — a  desert  where  life  was 
impossible  to  man — fading  into  the  blue  haze 
of  the  horizon;  and  there  was  nothing  beyond  it. 
On  that  gray  strip,  on  the  borders  of  the  unknown 
beyond,  they  could  search  for  tortoises,  and  hunt 
a  few  wild  animals,  and  gather  a  few  wild  fruits, 
and  hard  woods  and  spines  for  weapons;  and 
then  return  to  the  river,  as  children  go  back  to 
their  mother.  All  things  were  reflected  in  its 
waters,  the  infinite  blue  sky,  the  clouds  and  heav- 
enly bodies;  the  trees  and  tall  herbage  on  its 
banks,  and  their  dark  faces ;  and  just  as  they  were 
mirrored  in  it,  so  its  current  was  mirrored  in  their 
minds.  The  old  man,  grown  blind  with  age,  from 
constantly  seeing  its  image  so  bright  and  per- 


44  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

sistent,  would  be  unconscious  of  his  blindness.  It 
was  thus  more  to  him  than  all  other  objects  and 
forces  in  nature ;  the  Inca  might  worship  sun  and 
lightning  and  rainbow;  to  the  inhabitant  of  the 
valley  the  river  was  more  than  these,  the  most 
powerful  thing  in  nature,  the  most  beneficent,  and 
his  chief  god. 

I  do  not  know,  nor  can  any  one  know,  whether 
the  former  dwellers  in  the  valley  left  any  descend- 
ants, any  survivors  of  that  age  that  left  some 
traces  of  a  brightening  intellect  on  its  stone  work. 
Probably  not ;  the  few  Indians  now  inhabiting  the 
valley  are  most  probably  modern  colonists  of  an- 
other family  or  nation ;  yet  it  did  not  surprise  me 
to  hear  that  some  of  these  half-tame,  half-chris- 
tianized savages  had,  not  long  before  my  visit, 
sacrificed  a  white  bull  to  the  river,  slaying  it  on 
the  bank  and  casting  its  warm,  bleeding  body  into 
the  current. 

Even  the  European  colonists  have  not  been  un- 
affected psychologically  by  the  peculiar  conditions 
they  live  in,  and  by  the  river,  on  which  they  are 
dependent.  When  first  I  became  cognizant  of  this 
feeling,  which  was  very  soon,  I  was  disposed  to 
laugh  a  little  at  the  very  large  place  the  river 
occupied  in  all  men's  minds;  but  after  a  few 
months  of  life  on  its  banks  it  was  hardly  less  to 
me  than  to  others,  and  I  experienced  a  kind  of 
shame  when  I  recalled  my  former  want  of  rever- 
ence, as  if  I  had  made  a  jest  of  something  sacred. 
Nor  to  this  day  can  I  think  of  the  Patagonian 


ASPECTS  OF  THE  VALLEY  45 

river  merely  as  one  of  the  rivers  I  know.  Other 
streams,  by  comparison,  seem  vulgar,  with  no 
higher  purpose  than  to  water  man  and  beast,  and 
to  serve,  like  canals,  as  a  means  of  transport. 

One  day,  to  the  house  where  I  was  staying  near 
the  town,  there  came  a  native  lady  on  a  visit, 
bringing  with  her  six  bright  blue-eyed  children. 
As  we,  the  elders,  sat  in  the  living-room,  sipping 
mate  and  talking,  one  of  the  youngsters,  an  intel- 
ligent-looking boy  of  nine,  came  in  from  play,  and 
getting  him  by  me  I  amused  him  for  a  while  with 
some  yarns  and  with  talk  about  beasts  and  birds. 
He  asked  me  where  I  lived.  My  home,  I  said,  was 
in  the  Buenos  Ayrean  pampas,  far  north  of  Pata- 
gonia. 

"Is  it  near  the  river,"  he  asked,  "right  on  the 
bank,  like  this  house?" 

I  explained  that  it  was  on  a  great,  grassy,  level 
plain,  that  there  was  no  river  there,  and  that  when 
I  went  out  on  horseback  I  did  not  have  to  ride 
up  and  down  a  valley,  but  galloped  away  in  any 
direction — north,  south,  east,  or  west.  He  listened 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  then  with  a  merry  laugh 
ran  out  again  to  join  the  others  at  their  game. 
It  was  as  if  I  had  told  him  that  I  lived  up  in  a 
tree  that  grew  to  the  clouds,  or  under  the  sea,  or 
some  such  impossible  thing;  it  was  nothing  but- a 
joke  to  him.  His  mother,  sitting  near,  had  been 
listening  to  us,  and  when  the  boy  laughed  and 
ran  out,  I  remarked  to  her  that  to  a  child  born 
and  living  always  in  that  valley,  shut  in  by  the 


46  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

thorny,  waterless  uplands,  it  was,  perhaps,  incon- 
ceivable that  in  other  places  people  could  exist  out 
of  a  valley  and  away  from  a  river.  She  looked 
at  me  with  a  puzzled  expression  in  her  eyes,  as  if 
trying  to  see  something  mentally  which  her  eyes 
had  never  seen — trying,  in  fact,  to  create  some- 
thing out  of  nothing.  She  agreed  with  me  in 
some  hesitating  words,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  put 
my  foot  in  it ;  for  only  then  I  recalled  the  fact  that 
she  also  had  been  born  in  the  valley — the  great- 
granddaughter  of  one  of  the  original  founders  of 
the  colony — and  was  probably  as  incapable  as  the 
child  of  imagining  any  other  conditions  than  those 
she  had  always  been  accustomed  to. 

It  struck  me  that  the  children  here  have  a  very 
healthy,  happy  life,  especially  those  whose  homes 
are  in  the  narrow  parts  of  the  valley,  who  are  able 
to  ramble  every  day  into  the  thorny  uplands  in 
search  of  birds '  eggs  and  other  pretty  things,  and 
the  wild  flavors  and  little  adventures  that  count 
for  so  much  with  the  very  young.  In  birds '  eggs, 
the  greatest  prizes  are  those  of  the  partridge- 
like  tinamous,  the  beautifully  mottled  and  crested 
martineta  (Calodromas  elegans),  that  lays  a  dozen 
eggs  as  large  as  those  of  a  fowl,  with  deep-green 
polished  shells ;  and  the  smaller  Nothura  darwini, 
whose  eggs  vary  in  tint  from  wine-purple  to  a  red- 
dish-purple or  liver  color.  In  summer  and  au- 
tumn fruits  and  sweet  gums  are  not  scarce.  One 
gray-leafed  herbaceous  shrub  is  much  sought  after 
for  its  sap,  that  oozes  from  the  stem  and  hardens 


ASPECTS  OF  THE  VALLEY  47 

in  small  globes  and  lumps  that  look  and  taste  like 
white  sugar.  There  is  a  small  disk-shaped  cactus, 
growing  close  to  the  surface,  and  well  defended 
with  sharp  spines,  which  bears  a  pinkish-yellow 
fruit  with  a  pleasant  taste.  There  is  also  a  large 
cactus,  four  or  five  feet  high,  so  dark-green  as  to 
appear  almost  black  among  the  pale-gray  bushes. 
It  bears  a  splendid  crimson  flower,  and  a  crimson 
fruit  that  is  insipid  and  not  considered  worth  eat- 
ing; but  being  of  so  beautiful  a  color  to  see  it  is 
sufficient  pleasure.  The  plant  is  not  very  com- 
mon, and  one  does  not  see  too  many  of  the  fruits 
even  in  a  long  day 's  ramble : 

Like  stones  of  worth,  they  thinly  placed  are. 

The  chanar  bears  a  fruit  like  a  cherry  in  size,  and, 
like  a  cherry,  with  a  stone  inside;  it  has  a  white 
pulp  and  a  golden  skin ;  the  flavor  is  peculiar  and 
delicious,  and  seemed  to  be  greatly  appreciated  by 
the  birds,  so  that  the  children  get  little.  Another 
wild  fruit  is  that  of  the  Piquellin  (Condalia  spi- 
nosa),  the  dark-leafed  bush  which  was  mentioned 
in  the  first  chapter.  Its  oval-shaped  berries  are 
less  than  currants  in  size,  but  are  in  such  pro- 
fusion that  the  broad  tops  of  the  bushes  become 
masses  of  deep  color  in  autumn.  There  are  two 
varieties,  one  crimson,  the  other  purple-black,  like 
sloes  and  blackberries.  They  have  a  strong  but 
not  unpleasant  flavor,  and  the  children  are  so  fond 
of  them  that,  like  the  babes  in  the  wood,  their  little 


48  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

lips  are  all  bestained  and  red  with  the  beautiful 
juice. 

The  magnetism  of  the  river  (to  go  back  to  that 
subject)  is  probably  intensified  by  the  prevailing 
monotonous  grays,  greens,  and  browns  of  nature 
on  either  side  of  it.  It  has  the  powerful  effect  of 
brightness,  which  fascinates  us,  as  it  does  the 
moth,  and  the  eye  is  drawn  to  it  as  to  a  path  of 
shining  silver — that  is,  of  silver  in  some  condi- 
tions of  the  atmosphere,  and  of  polished  steel  in 
others.  At  ordinary  times  there  is  no  other 
brightness  in  nature  to  draw  the  sight  away  and 
divide  the  attention.  Only  twice  in  the  year,  for 
a  brief  season  in  spring  and  again  in  autumn, 
there  is  anything  like  large  masses  of  bright  color 
in  the  vegetation  to  delight  the  eyes.  The  com- 
monest of  the  gray-foliaged  plants  that  grow  on 
the  high  grounds  along  the  borders  of  the  valley 
is  the  chanar,  Gurliaca  decorticans,  a  tree  in  form, 
but  scarcely  more  than  a  bush  in  size.  In  late 
October  it  bears  a  profusion  of  flowers  in  clusters, 
in  shape,  size,  and  brilliant  yellow  color  resem- 
bling the  flower  of  the  broom.  .A  f  this  season  the 
uplands  along  the  valley  have  a  otrangely  gay  ap- 
pearance. Again,  there  is  yellow  in  the  autumn — 
the  deeper  yellow  of  xanthophyl — when  the 
leaves  of  the  red  willows  growing  on  the  banks 
of  the  river  change  their  color  before  falling.  This 
willow  (Salix  humboldtiana)  is  the  only  large  wild 
tree  in  the  country ;  but  whether  it  grew  here  prior 
to  the  advent  of  the  Spanish  or  not,  I  do  not  know? 


THE   BLACK    VULTURE 


ASPECTS  OF  THE  VALLEY  49 

But  its  existence  is  now  doomed  as  a  large  tree  of 
a  century's  majestic  growth,  forming  a  suitable 
perch  and  lookout  for  the  harpy  and  gray  eagles, 
common  in  the  valley,  and  the  still  more  common 
vultures  and  Polybori,  and  of  the  high-roosting, 
noble  black-faced  ibis;  a  home  and  house,  too,  of 
the  Magellanic  eagle-owl  and  the  spotted  wild  cat 
(Felis  geoffroyi) ;  and  where  even  the  puma  could 
lie  at  ease  on  a  horizontal  branch  thirty  or  forty 
feet  above  the  earth.  Being  of  soft  wood,  it  can 
be  cut  down  very  easily;  and  when  felled  and 
lashed  in  rafts  on  the  river,  it  is  floated  down 
stream  to  supply  the  inhabitants  with  a  cheap 
wood  for  fuel,  building,  and  other  purposes. 

At  the  highest  point  I  reached  in  my  rambles 
along  the  valley,  about  a  hundred  and  twenty 
miles  from  the  coast,  there  was  a  very  extensive 
grove  or  wood  of  this  willow,  many  of  the  trees 
very  large,  and  some  dead  from  age.  I  visited  this 
spot  with  an  English  friend,  who  resided  some 
twenty  miles  lower  down,  and  spent  a  day  and  a 
half  wading  about  waist-deep  through  the  tall, 
coarse  grasses  and  rushes  under  the  gaunt,  leafless 
trees,  for  the  season  was  midwinter.  The  weather 
was  the  worst  I  had  experienced  in  the  country, 
being  piercingly  cold,  with  a  violent  wind  and 
frequent  storms  of  rain  and  sleet.  The  rough,  wet 
boles  of  the  trees  rose  up  tall  and  straight  like 
black  pillars  from  the  rank  herbage  beneath,  and 
on  the  higher  branches  innumerable  black  vultures 
(Cathartes  atratus)  were  perched,  waiting  all  the 


50  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

dreary  day  long  for  fair  weather  to  fly  abroad 
in  search  of  food. 

On  the  ground  this  vulture  does  not  appear  to 
advantage,  especially  when  bobbing  and  jumping 
about,  performing  the  " buzzard  lope,"  when  quar- 
reling with  his  fellows  over  a  carcass:  but  when 
perched  aloft,  his  small  naked  rugous  head  and 
neck  and  horny  curved  beak  seen  well-defined 
above  the  broad  black  surface  of  the  folded  wing, 
he  does  not  show  badly.  As  I  had  no  wish  to 
make  a  bag  of  vultures  and  saw  nothing  else,  I 
shot  nothing. 

A  little  past  noon  on  the  second  day  we  saddled 
our  horses  and  started  on  our  homeward  ride; 
and  although  the  wind  still  blew  a  gale,  lashing  the 
river  into  a  long  line  of  foam  on  the  opposite 
shore,  and  bringing  storms  of  rain  and  sleet  at 
intervals,  this  proved  a  very  delightful  ride,  one 
that  shines  in  memory  above  all  other  rides  I  have 
taken.  We  went  at  a  swift  gallop  along  the  north 
bank,  and  never  had  gray  Patagonia  looked  more 
soberly  and  sadly  gray  than  on  this  afternoon. 
The  soil,  except  in  places  where  the  winter  grass 
had  spread  over  it,  had  taken  a  darker  brown 
color  from  the  rain  it  had  imbibed,  and  the  bosky 
uplands  a  deeper  gray  than  ever,  while  the  whole 
vast  sky  was  stormy  and  dark.  But  after  a  time 
the  westering  sun  began  to  shine  through  the  rifts 
behind  us,  while  before  us  on  the  wild  flying  clouds 
appeared  a  rainbow  with  hues  so  vivid  that  we 
shouted  aloud  with  joy  at  the  sight  of  such  loveli- 


ASPECTS  OF  THE  VALLEY  51 

ness.  For  nearly  an  hour  we  rode  with  this  vision 
of  glory  always  before  ns;  grove  after  grove  of 
leafless  black-barked  willow-trees  on  our  right 
hand,  and  gray  thorny  hill  after  hill  on  our  left, 
did  we  pass  in  our  swift  ride,  while  great  flocks  of 
upland  geese  continually  rose  up  before  us,  with 
shrill  whistlings  mingled  with  solemn  deep  dron- 
ing cries;  and  the  arch  of  watery  fire  still  lived, 
now  fading  as  the  flying  wrack  grew  thinner  and 
thinner,  then,  just  when  it  seemed  about  to  vanish, 
brightening  once  more  to  a  new  and  more  won- 
derful splendor,  its  arch  ever  widening  to  greater 
proportions  as  the  sun  sunk  lower  in  the  sky. 

I  do  not  suppose  that  the  colors  were  really 
more  vivid  than  in  numberless  other  rainbows  I 
have  seen ;  it  was,  I  think,  the  universal  grayness 
of  earth  and  heaven  in  that  gray  winter  season, 
in  a  region  where  color  is  so  sparsely  used  by 
Nature,  that  made  it  seem  so  supremely  beautiful, 
so  that  the  sight  of  it  affected  us  like  wine. 

The  eyes,  says  Bacon,  are  ever  most  pleased 
with  a  lively  embroidery  on  a  sad  and  somber 
ground.  This  was  taught  to  us  by  the  green  and 
violent  arch  on  the  slaty  gray  vapor.  But  Nature 
is  too  wise 

To  blunt  the  fine  point  of  seldom  pleasure. 

The  day  of  supernatural  splendor  and  glory 
comes  only  after  many  days  that  are  only  natural, 
and  of  a  neutral  color.  It  is  watched  and  waited 


52 

for,  and  when  it  comes  is  like  a  day  of  some  great 
festival  and  rejoicing — the  day  when  peace  was 
made,  when  our  love  was  returned,  when  a  child 
was  born  to  us.  Such  sights  are  like  certain 
sounds,  that  not  only  delight  us  with  their  pure 
and  beautiful  quality,  but  wake  in  us  feelings  that 
we  cannot  fathom  nor  analyze.  They  are  familiar, 
yet  stranger  than  the  strangest  things,  with  a 
beauty  that  is  not  of  the  earth,  as  if  a  loved  friend, 
long  dead,  had  unexpectedly  looked  back  to  us 
from  heaven,  transfigured.  It  strikes  me  as 
strange  that,  so  far  as  we  know,  the  Incas  were 
the  only  worshipers  of  the  rainbow. 

One  evening  in  the  autumn  of  the  year,  near  the 
town,  I  was  witness  of  an  extraordinary  and  very 
magnificent  sunset  effect.  The  sky  was  clear  ex- 
cept for  a  few  masses  of  cloud  low  down  in  the 
west ;  and  these,  some  time  after  the  sun  had  dis- 
appeared, assumed  more  vivid  and  glowing  col- 
ors, while  the  pale  yellow  sky  beyond  became  more 
luminous  and  flame-like.  All  at  once,  as  I  stood 
not  far  from  the  bank,  looking  westward  across 
the  river,  the  water  changed  from  green  to  an  in- 
tense crimson  hue,  this  extending  on  both  hands 
as  far  as  I  could  see.  The  tide  was  running  out, 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  where  the  surface 
was  roughened  into  waves  by  the  current,  it  quiv- 
ered and  sparkled  like  crimson  flame,  while  near 
the  opposite  shore,  where  rows  of  tall  Lombardy 
poplars  threw  their  shadow  on  the  surface,  it  was 
violet-colored.  This  appearance  lasted  for  five 


ASPECTS  OF  THE  VALLEY  53 

or  six  minutes,  then  the  crimson  color  grew 
darker  by  degrees  until  it  disappeared.  I  have 
frequently  read  and  heard  of  such  a  phenomenon, 
and  many  persons  have  assured  me  that  they  have 
witnessed  it  "with  their  own  eyes."  But  what 
they  have  witnessed  one  does  not  know.  I  have 
often  seen  the  surface  of  water,  of  the  ocean,  or 
a  lake,  or  river,  flushed  with  a  rosy  color  at  sunset ; 
but  to  see,  some  time  after  sunset,  the  waters  of 
a  river  changed  to  blood  and  crimson  fire,  this 
appearance  lasting  until  the  twilight  drew  on, 
and  the  earth  and  trees  looked  black  by  contrast, 
has  been  my  lot  once  only  on  this  occasion;  and 
I  imagine  that  if  any  river  on  the  globe  was  known 
to  take  such  an  appearance  frequently,  it  would 
become  as  celebrated,  and  draw  pilgrims  as  far 
to  see  it,  as  Chimborazo  and  the  Falls  of  Niagara. 
Between  the  town  and  the  sea,  a  distance  of 
about  twenty  miles,  the  valley  is  mostly  on  the 
south  side  of  the  river ;  on  the  north  side  the  cur- 
rent comes  very  near,  and  in  many  places  washes 
the  upland.  I  visited  the  sea  by  both  ways,  and 
rode  for  some  distance'  along  the  coast  on  both 
sides  of  the  river.  North  of  the  river  the  beach 
was  shingle  and  sand,  backed  by  low  sand  dunes 
extending  away  into  infinitude;  but  on  the  south 
side,  outside  the  valley,  a  sheer  stupendous  preci- 
pice faced  the  ocean.  A  slight  adventure  I  had 
with  a  condor,  the  only  bird  of  that  species  I 
met  with  in  Patagonia,  will  give  some  idea  of  the 
height  of  this  sheer  wall  of  rock.  I  was  riding 


54  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

with  a  friend  along  the  cliff  when  the  majestic 
bird  appeared,  and  swooping  downwards  hovered 
at  a  height  of  forty  feet  above  our  heads.  My 
companion  raised  his  gun  and  fired,  and  we  heard 
the  shot  rattle  loudly  on  the  stiff  quills  of  the 
broad  motionless  wings.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
some  of  the  shot  entered  its  flesh,  as  it  quickly 
swept  down  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff  and  disap- 
peared from  our  sight.  We  got  off  our  horses, 
and  crawling  to  the  edge  of  the  dreadful  cliff 
looked  down,  but  could  see  nothing  of  the  bird. 
Remounting  we  rode  on  for  a  little  over  a  mile, 
until  coming  to  the  end  of  the  cliff  we  went  down 
under  it  and  galloped  back  over  the  narrow  strip 
of  beach  which  appears  at  low  tide.  Arrived  at 
the  spot  where  the  bird  had  been  lost  we  caught 
sight  of  it  once  more,  perched  at  the  mouth  of 
a  small  cavity  in  the  face  of  the  rocky  wall  near 
the  summit,  and  looking  at  that  height  no  bigger 
than  a  buzzard.  He  was  far  beyond  the  reach  of 
shot,  and  safe,  and  if  not  fatally  wounded,  may 
soar  above  that  desolate  coast,  and  fight  with  vul- 
tures and  gray  eagles  over  the  carcasses  of 
stranded  fishes  and  seals  for  half  a  century  to 
come. 

Close  to  the  mouth  of  the  river  there  is  a  low 
flat  island,  about  half  a  mile  in  length,  covered 
in  most  part  by  a  dense  growth  of  coarse  grass 
and  rushes.  It  is  inhabited  by  a  herd  of  swine; 
and  although  these  animals  do  not  increase,  they 
have  been  able  to  maintain  their  existence  for  a 


cZBE 


x& 


55 

long  period  without  diminishing  in  number,  in 
spite  of  the  occasional  great  tides  that  flood  the 
whole  island,  and  of  multitudes  of  hungry  eagles 
and  caranchos  always  on  the  look  out  for  stray 
sucklings.  Many  years  ago,  while  some  gauchos 
were  driving  a  troop  of  half  wild  cows  near  the 
shore  on  the  neighboring  mainland,  a  heifer  took 
to  the  water  and  succeeded  in  swimming  to  the 
island,  where  she  was  lost  to  her  owner.  About 
a  year  later  this  animal  was  seen  by  a  man  who 
had  gone  to  the  island  to  cut  rushes  for  thatching 
purposes.  The  cow  and  the  pigs,  to  the  number  of 
about  twenty-five  or  twenty- six,  were  lying  fast 
asleep  in  a  small  grassy  hollow  where  he  found 
them,  the  cow  stretched  out  at  full  length  on  the 
ground,  and  the  pigs  grouped  or  rather  heaped 
around  her;  for  they  were  all  apparently  ambi- 
tious to  rest  with  their  heads  pillowed  on  her,  so 
that  she  was  almost  concealed  under  them.  Pres- 
ently one  of  the  drove,  more  wakeful  than  his 
fellows,  became  aware  of  his  presence  and  gave 
the  alarm,  whereupon  they  started  up  like  one 
animal  and  vanished  into  a  rush-bed.  The  cow, 
thus  doomed  to  live  "alone,  yet  not  alone,"  was 
subsequently  seen  on  several  occasions  by  the 
rush-cutters,  always  with  her  fierce  followers 
grouped  round  her  like  a  bodyguard.  This  con- 
tinued for  some  years,  and  the  fame  of  the  cow 
that  had  become  the  leader  and  queen  of  the  wild 
island  pigs  was  spread  abroad  in  the  valley;  then 
a  human  being,  who  was  not  a  "  sentimentalist, " 


56  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

betook  himself  to  her  little  kingdom  with  a  musket 
loaded  with  ball,  and  succeeded  in  finding  and 
shooting  her. 

In  spite  of  what  we  have  been  taught,  it  is 
sometimes  borne  in  on  us  that  man  is  a  little  lower 
than  the  brutes. 

After  hearing  this  incident  one  does  not  at  once 
sit  down  with  a  good  appetite  to  roast  beef  or 
swine's  flesh. 


CHAPTER  V 
A  DOG  IN  EXILE 

AT  the  English  estate  up  the  river,  where  I  made 
so  long  a  stay,  there  were  several  dogs,  some 
of  them  of  the  common  dog  of  no  breed  found 
throughout  Argentina,  a  smooth-haired  animal, 
varying  greatly  in  color,  but  of tenest  red  or  black ; 
also  differing  much  in  size,  but  in  a  majority  of 
cases  about  as  big  as  a  Scotch  colley.  There  were 
also  a  few  others,  dogs  of  good  breeds,  and  these 
were  specially  interesting  to  me,  because  they 
were  not  restrained  nor  directed  in  any  way,  nor 
any  use  made  of  them  in  their  special  lines.  Left 
to  their  own  devices,  and  to  rough  it  with  the 
others,  the  result  was  rather  curious.  The  only 
one  among  them  that  had  proved  capable  of  ac- 
commodating himself  to  the  new  circumstances 
was  a  Scotch  colley — a  fine  animal  of  pure  blood. 
The  common  dog  of  the  country  is  a  jack-of-all- 
trades;  a  great  lover  of  the  chase,  but  a  bad 
hunter,  a  splendid  scavenger,  a  good  watch-dog 
and  vermin-killer;  an  indifferent  sheep-dog,  but 
invaluable  in  gathering  up  and  driving  cattle. 
Beyond  these  things  which  he  picks  up,  you  can 
really  teach  him  nothing  useful,  although  with 

57 


58  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

considerable  trouble  you  might  be  able  to  add  a 
few  ornamental  subjects,  such  as  giving  his  paw, 
and  keeping  guard  over  a  coat  or  stick  left  in 
his  charge.  He  is  a  generalized  beast,  grandson 
to  the  jackal,  and  first  cousin  to  the  cur  of  Europe 
and  the  Eastern  pariah.  To  this  primitive,  or 
only  slightly-improved  type  of  dog,  the  colley 
perhaps  comes  nearest  of  all  the  breeds  we  value ; 
and  when  he  is  thrown  back  on  nature  he  is  "all 
there, ' '  and  not  hindered  as  the  pointer  and  other 
varieties  are  by  more  deeply-rooted  special  in- 
stincts. At  all  events,  this  individual  took  very 
kindly  to  the  rude  life  and  work  of  his  new  com- 
panions, and  by  means  of  his  hardihood  and  in- 
exhaustible energy,  became  their  leader  and  su- 
perior, especially  in  hunting.  Above  anything  he 
loved  to  chase  a  fox;  and  when  in  the  course  of 
a  ride  in  the  valley  one  was  started,  he  invariably 
threw  all  the  native  dogs  out  and  caught  and  killed 
it  himself.  If  these  dogs  had  all  together  taken 
to  a  feral  life,  I  do  not  think  the  colley  would 
have  been  worse  off  than  the  others. 

It  was  very  different  with  the  greyhounds. 
There  were  four,  all  of  pure  breed;  and  as  they 
were  never  taken  out  to  hunt,  and  could  not,  like 
the  colley,  take  their  share  in  the  ordinary  work 
of  the  establishment,  they  were  absolutely  useless, 
and  certainly  not  ornamental.  When  I  first  no- 
ticed them  they  were  pitiable  objects,  thin  as 
skeletons,  so  lame  that  they  could  scarcely  walk, 
and  wounded  and  scratched  all  over  with  thorns. 


A  DOG  IN  EXILE  59 

I  was  told  that  they  had  been  out  hunting  on  their 
own  account  in  the  thorny  upland,  and  that  this 
was  the  result.  For  three  or  four  days  they  re- 
mained inactive,  sleeping  the  whole  time,  except 
when  they  limped  to  the  kitchen  to  be  fed.  But 
day  by  day  they  improved  in  condition;  their 
scratches  healed,  their  ribbed  sides  grew  smooth 
and  sleek,  and  they  recovered  from  their  lame- 
ness ;  but  scarcely  had  they  got  well  before  it  was 
discovered  one  morning  that  they  had  vanished. 
They  had  gone  off  during  the  night  to  hunt  again 
on  the  uplands.  They  were  absent  two  nights  and 
a  day,  then  returned,  looking  even  more  reduced 
and  miserable  than  when  I  first  saw  them,  to  re- 
cover slowly  from  their  hurts  and  fatigue;  and 
when  well  again  they  were  off  once  more ;  and  so 
it  continued  during  the  whole  time  of  my  visit. 
These  hounds,  if  left  to  themselves,  would  have 
soon  perished. 

Another  member  of  this  somewhat  heterogene- 
ous canine  community  was  a  retriever,  one  of  the 
handsomest  I  have  ever  seen,  rather  small,  and 
with  a  most  perfect  head.  The  extreme  curliness 
of  his  coat  made  him  look  at  a  little  distance  like 
a  dog  cut  out  of  a  block  of  ebony,  with  the  surface 
carved  to  almost  symmetrical  knobbiness.  Major 
— that  was  his  namfi=rwould  have  lent  himself  well 
to  sculpture.  He  was  old,  but  not  too  fat,  nor 
inactive;  sometimes  he  would  go  out  with  the 
other  dogs,  but  apparently  he  could  not  keep  up 


60  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

the  pace,  as  after  a  few  hours  he  would  return 
always  alone,  looking  rather  disconsolate. 

I  have  always  been  partial  to  dogs  of  this  breed ; 
not  on  account  of  the  assistance  they  have  been 
to  me,  but  because  when  I  have  wished  to  have 
a  dog  at  my  side  I  have  found  them  more  suitable 
than  other  kinds  for  companions.  They  are  not 
stupid  nor  restless,  but  ready  to  fall  in  with  a 
quiet  mood,  and  never  irritate  by  a  perpetual  im- 
patient craving  for  notice.  A  fussy,  demonstra- 
tive dog,  that  can  never  efface  himself,  I  object 
to:  he  compels  your  attention,  and  puts  you  in  a 
subordinate  place:  you  are  his  attendant,  not  he 
yours. 

Major's  appearance  attracted  me  from  the  first, 
and  he,  on  his  side,  joyfully  responded  to  my  ad- 
vances, and  at  once  attached  himself  to  me,  follow- 
ing me  about  the  place  as  if  he  feared  to  lose 
sight  of  me  even  for  a  minute.  My  host,  however, 
hastened  to  warn  me  not  to  take  him  with  me 
when  I  went  out  shooting,  as  he  was  old  and  blind, 
and  subject,  moreover,  to  strange  freaks,  which 
made  him  worse  than  useless.  He  had  formerly 
been  an  excellent  retriever,  he  informed  me,  but 
even  in  his  best  days  not  wholly  to  be  trusted,  and 
now  he  was  nothing  but  bad. 

I  could  scarcely  credit  the  blindness,  as  he  did 
not  show  it  in  his  brown  intelligent  and  wistful 
eyes,  and  always  appeared  keenly  alive  and  inter- 
ested in  everything  going  on  about  him;  but  by 
experimenting  I  found  that  he  could  scarcely  see 


A  DOG  IN  EXILE  61 

further  than  about  six  inches  from  his  nose;  but 
his  hearing  and  scent  were  so  good,  and  guided 
him  so  well,  that  no  person  on  a  slight  acquaint- 
ance would  have  made  the  discovery  of  his  de- 
fective sight. 

Of  course,  after  this,  I  could  have  nothing  more 
to  do  with  the  retriever,  further  than  patting  him 
on  the  head,  and  speaking  a  kind  word  to  him 
whenever  he  chanced  to  be  in  my  way.  But  this 
was  not  enough  for  old  Major.  He  was  a  sport- 
ing dog,  full  of  energy,  and  with  undiminished 
faith  in  his  own  powers,  in  spite  of  his  years,  and 
when  a  sportsman  had  come  to  the  house,  and  had 
deliberately  singled  him  out  for  friendly  notice, 
he  could  not  and  would  not  believe  that  it  was 
to  go  no  further.  Day  after  day  he  clung  to  the 
delusion  that  he  was  to  accompany  me  in  my  walks 
and  little  shooting  excursions  in  the  neighborhood ; 
and  every  time  I  took  down  a  gun  he  would  rush 
forward  from  his  post  by  the  door  with  so  many 
demonstrations  of  joy,  and  with  such  imploring 
looks  and  gestures,  that  I  found  it  very  hard  to 
rebuke  him.  It  was  sad  to  have  him  standing 
there,  first  cocking  up  one  ear,  then  the  other, 
striving  to  pierce  the  baffling  mists  that  inter- 
vened between  his  poor  purblind  eyes  and  my 
face,  to  find  some  sign  of  relenting  in  it. 

It  was  evident  that  old  Major  was  not  happy, 
in  spite  of  all  he  had  to  make  him  so :  although  he 
was  well  fed  and  fat,  and  treated  with  the  great- 
est kindness  by  every  one  on  the  place,  and  al- 


62  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

though  all  the  other  dogs  about  the  house  looked 
Up  to  him  with  that  instinctive  respect  they  al- 
ways accord  to  the  oldest,  or  strongest,  or  most 
domineering  member,  his  heart  was  restless  and 
dissatisfied.  He  could  not  endure  an  inactive  life. 
There  was,  in  fact,  only  one  way  in  which  he  could 
or  was  allowed  to  work  off  his  superabundant  en- 
ergy. This  was  when  we  went  down  to  the  river 
to  bathe  in  the  afternoon,  and  when  we  would 
amuse  ourselves,  some  of  us,  by  throwing  enor- 
mous logs  and  dead  branches  into  the  current. 
They  were  large  and  heavy,  and  thrown  well  out 
into  one  of  the  most  rapid  rivers  in  the  world,  but 
Major  would  have  perished  forty  times  over,  if 
he  had  had  forty  lives  to  throw  away,  before  he 
would  have  allowed  one  of  those  useless  logs  to  be 
lost.  But  this  was  wasted  energy,  and  Major 
could  not  have  known  it  better  if  he  had  gradu- 
ated with  honors  at  the  Royal  School  of  Mines, 
consequently  his  exertions  in  the  river  did  not 
make  him  happy.  His  unhappiness  began  to  prey 
on  my  mind,  and  I  never  left  the  house  but  that 
mute  imploring  face  haunted  me  for  an  hour  after, 
until  I  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Major  conquered, 
and  to  witness  his  boundless  delight  and  grati- 
tude when  I  shouldered  my  gun  and  called  him 
to  me,  was  a  pleasure  worth  many  dead  birds. 
Nothing  important  happened  during  our  first 
few  expeditions.  Major  behaved  rather  wildly,  I 
thought,  but  he  was  obedient  and  anxious  to 
please,  and  my  impression  was  that  he  had  been 


A  DOG  IN  EXILE  63 

too  long  neglected,  and  would  soon  settle  down 
to  do  his  share  of  the  work  in  a  sober,  business- 
like manner. 

Then  a  day  came  when  Major  covered  himself 
with  glory.  I  came  one  morning  on  a  small  flock 
of  flamingoes  in  a  lagoon;  they  were  standing 
in  the  water,  about  seventy-five  or  eighty  yards 
from  the  shore,  quietly  dozing.  Fortunately  the 
lagoon  was  bordered  by  a  dense  bed  of  tall  rushes, 
about  fifteen  yards  in  breadth,  so  that  I  was  able 
to  approach  the  birds  unseen  by  them.  I  crept  up 
to  the  rushes  in  a  fever  of  delighted  excitement; 
not  that  flamingoes  are  not  common  in  that  dis- 
trict, but  because  I  had  noticed  that  one  of  the 
birds  before  me  was  the  largest  and  loveliest  fla- 
mingo I  had  ever  set  eyes  on,  and  I  had  long  been 
anxious  to  secure  one  very  perfect  specimen.  I 
think  my  hand  trembled  a  great  deal;  neverthe- 
less, the  bird  dropped  when  I  fired ;  and  then  how 
quickly  the  joy  I  experienced  was  changed  to 
despair  when  I  looked  on  the  wide  expanse  of 
mud,  reeds  and  water  that  separated  him  from 
me !  How  was  I  ever  to  get  him?  for  it  is  as  much 
as  a  man's  life  is  worth  to  venture  into  one  of 
these  long  river-like  lagoons  in  the  valley,  as  un- 
der the  quiet  water  there  is  a  bed  of  mire,  soft  as 
clotted  cream,  and  deep  enough  for  a  giant's 
grave.  I  thought  of  Major,  but  not  for  a  moment 
did  I  believe  that  he,  poor  dog!  was  equal  to  the 
task.  When  I  fired  he  dashed  hurriedly  forward, 
and  came  against  the  wall  of  close  rushes,  where 


64  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

he  struggled  hopelessly  for  a  little  while,  and  then 
floundered  back  to  me.  There  was,  however,  noth- 
ing else  to  be  done.  * '  Major,  come  here, ' '  I  called, 
and,  taking  a  lump  of  clay  I  threw  it  as  far  as  I 
could  towards  the  floating  bird.  He  raised  his 
ears,  and  listened  to  get  the  right  direction,  and 
when  the  splash  of  the  stone  reached  us  he  dashed 
in  and  against  the  rushes  once  more.  After  a  vio- 
lent struggle  he  succeeded  in  getting  through 
them,  and,  finding  himself  in  deep  water,  struck 
straight  out,  and  then  began  swimming  about  in 
all  directions,  until,  getting  to  windward  of  the 
bird,  he  followed  up  the  scent  and  found  it.  This 
was  the  easiest  part  of  the  task,  as  the  bird  was 
very  large,  and  when  Major  got  back  to  the  rushes 
with  it,  and  I  heard  him  crashing  and  floundering 
through,  snorting  and  coughing  as  if  half -suffo- 
cated, I  was  sure  that  if  I  ever  got  my  flamingo 
at  all  it  must  be  hopelessly  damaged.  At  length 
he  appeared,  so  exhausted  with  his  exertions  that 
he  could  hardly  stand,  and  deposited  the  bird  at 
my  feet.  Never  had  I  seen  such  a  splendid  speci- 
men! It  was  an  old  cock  bird,  excessively  fat, 
weighing  sixteen  pounds,  yet  Major  had  brought 
it  out  through  this  slough  of  despond  without 
breaking  its  skin,  or  soiling  its  exquisitely  beauti- 
ful crimson,  rose-colored,  and  faintly-blushing 
white  plumage !  Had  he  not  himself  been  so  plas- 
tered with  mud  and  slime  I  should,  in  gratitude, 
have  taken  him  into  my  arms;  but  he  appeared 
very  well  satisfied  with  the  words  of  approval  I 


MAJOR    AND    THE    FLAMINGO 


A  DOG  IN  EXILE  65 

bestowed  on  him,  and  we  started  homeward  in 
a  happy  frame  of  mind,  each  feeling  well  pleased 
with  the  other — and  himself. 

That  evening  as  I  sat  by  the  fire  greatly  enjoy- 
ing my  after-dinner  coffee,  and  a  pipe  of  the 
strongest  cavendish,  I  related  the  day's  adven- 
tures, and  then  for  the  first  time  heard  from  my 
host  something  of  Major's  antecedents  and  re- 
markable history. 

He  was  a  Scotch  dog  by  birth,  and  had  formerly 
belonged  to  the  Earl  of  Zetland,  and  as  he  proved 
to  be  an  exceptionally  clever  and  good-looking 
young  dog,  he  was  for  a  time  thought  much  of; 
but  there  was  a  drop  of  black  blood  in  Major's 
heart,  and  in  a  moment  of  temptation  it  led  him 
into  courses  for  which  he  was  finally  condemned 
to  an  ignominious  death;  he  escaped  to  become  a 
pioneer  of  civilization  in  the  wilderness,  and  to 
show  even  in  old  age  and  when  his  sight  had 
failed  him,  of  what  stuff  he  was  made.  Killing 
sheep  was  his  crime;  he  had  hunted  the  swift- 
footed  cheviots  and  black-faces  on  the  hills  and 
moors;  he  had  tasted  their  blood  and  had  made 
the  discovery  that  it  was  sweet,  and  the  ancient 
wild  dog  instinct  was  hot  in  his  heart.  The  new 
joy  possessed  his  whole  being,  and  in  a  moment 
swept  away  every  restraint.  The  savage  life  was 
the  only  real  life  after  all,  and  what  cared  Major 
about  the  greatest  happiness  for  the  greatest 
number,  and  new  fangled  notions  about  the  divi- 
sion of  labor,  in  which  so  mean  a  part  was  as- 


66  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

signed  him!  Was  he  to  spend  a  paltry  puppy 
existence  retrieving  birds,  first  flushed  by  a  stupid 
pointer  or  setter,  and  shot  by  a  man  with  a  gun — 
the  bird,  after  all,  to  be  eaten  by  none  of  them; 
and  he,  in  return  for  his  share  in  the  work,  to  be 
fed  on  mild  messes  and  biscuits,  and  beef,  killed 
somewhere  out  of  sight  by  a  butcher?  Away  with 
such  a  complex  state  of  things !  He  would  not  be 
stifled  by  such  an  artificial  system;  he  would  kill 
his  own  mutton  on  the  moors,  and  eat  it  raw  and 
warm  in  the  good  old  fashion,  and  enjoy  life,  as, 
doubtless,  every  dog  of  spirit  had  enjoyed  it  a 
thousand  years  ago ! 

This  was  not  to  be  permitted  on  a  well-conducted 
estate;  and  as  it  was  thought  that  chains  and 
slavery  would  be  less  endurable  than  death  to  a 
dog  of  Major's  spirit,  to  death  he  was  forthwith 
condemned. 

Now  it  happened  that  a  gentleman,  hearing  all 
this  from  the  earl's  gamekeeper,  before  the  dread 
sentence  had  been  executed,  all  at  once  remem- 
bered that  one  of  his  friends,  who  was  preparing 
to  emigrate  to  Patagonia,  purposed  taking  out 
some  good  dogs  with  him,  and  thinking  that  this 
retriever  would  form  an  acceptable  gift,  he  begged 
for  it.  The  gamekeeper  gave  it  to  him,  and  he 
in  turn  gave  it  to  his  friend,  and  in  this  way  Ma- 
jor escaped  the  penalty,  and  in  due  time,  after 
seeing  and  doubtless  reflecting  much  by  the  way, 
arrived  at  his  destination.  I  say  advisedly  that 
Major  probably  reflected  a  great  deal,  for  in  his 


A  DOO  IN  EXILE  67 

new  home  he  never  once  gave  way  to  his  criminal 
appetite  for  sheep 's  blood ;  but  whenever  the  flock 
came  in  his  way,  which  was  often  enough,  he 
turned  resolutely  aside  and  skulked  off  out  of  the 
sound  of  their  bleating  as  quickly  as  possible. 

All  I  heard  from  my  host  only  served  to  raise 
my  opinion  of  Major,  and,  remembering  what  he 
had  accomplished  that  day,  I  formed  the  idea  that 
the  most  glorious  period  of  his  life  had  just 
dawned,  that  he  had  now  begun  a  series  of  ex- 
ploits, compared  with  which  the  greatest  deeds  of 
all  retrievers  in  other  lands  would  sink  into  insig- 
nificance. 

I  have  now  to  relate  Major's  second  important 
exploit,  and  on  this  occasion  the  birds  were  geese. 

The  upland  geese  are  excellent  eating,  and  it 
was  our  custom  to  make  an  early  breakfast  off  a 
cold  goose,  or  of  any  remnants  left  in  the  larder. 
Cold  boiled  goose  and  coffee,  often  with  no  bread 
— it  sounds  strange,  but  never  shall  I  forget  those 
delicious  early  Patagonian  breakfasts. 

Now  the  geese,  although  abundant  at  that  sea- 
son, were  excessively  wary,  and  hard  to  kill;  and 
as  no  other  person  went  after  them,  although  all 
grumbled  loudly  when  there  was  no  goose  for 
breakfast,  I  was  always  very  glad  to  get  a  shot 
at  them  when  out  with  the  gun. 

One  day  I  saw  a  great  flock  congregated  on  a 
low  mud  bank  in  one  of  the  lagoons,  and  immedi- 
ately began  to  maneuver  to  get  within  shooting 
distance  without  disturbing  them.  Fortunately 


68  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

they  were  in  a  great  state  of  excitement,  keeping 
up  a  loud  incessant  clamor,  as  if  something  very 
important  to  the  upland  geese  was  being  dis- 
cussed, and  in  the  general  agitation  they  neglected 
their  safety.  More  geese  in  small  flocks  were  con- 
tinually arriving  from  various  directions,  increas- 
ing the  noise  and  excitement ;  and  by  dint  of  much 
going  on  hands  and  knees  and  crawling  over  rough 
ground,  I  managed  to  get  within  seventy  yards  of 
them  and  fired  into  the  middle  of  the  flock.  The 
birds  rose  up  with  a  great  rush  of  wings  and  noise 
of  screams,  leaving  five  of  their  number  flounder- 
ing about  in  the  shallow  water.  Major  was  quickly 
after  them,  but  two  of  the  five  were  not  badly 
wounded,  and  soon  swam  away  beyond  his  reach ; 
to  the  others  he  was  guided  by  the  tremendous 
flapping  they  made  in  the  water  in  their  death 
struggles;  and  one  by  one  he  conveyed  them,  not 
to  his  expectant  master,  but  to  a  small  island 
about  a  hundred  and  twenty  yards  from  the  shore. 
No  sooner  had  he  got  them  all  together  than,  to 
my  unspeakable  astonishment  and  dismay,  he  be- 
gan worrying  them,  growling  all  the  time  with  a 
playful  affectation  of  anger,  and  pulling  out 
mouthfuls  of  feathers  which  he  scattered  in  clouds 
over  his  head.  To  my  shouts  he  responded  by 
wagging  his  tail,  and  barking  a  merry  crisp  little 
bark,  then  flying  at  the  dead  birds  again.  He 
seemed  to  be  telling  me,  plainly  as  if  he  had  used 
words,  that  he  heard  me  well  enough,  but  was 
not  disposed  to  obey,  that  he  found  it  very  amus- 


A  DOG  IN  EXILE  69 

ing  playing  with  the  geese  and  intended  to  enjoy 
himself  to  his  heart's  content. 

"Major!  Major!"  I  cried,  "you  base  ungrate- 
ful dog !  Is  this  the  way  you  repay  me  for  all  my 
kindness,  for  befriending  you  when  others  spoke 
evil  of  you,  and  made  you  keep  at  home,  and 
treated  you  with  contemptuous  neglect!  Oh,  you 
wretched  brute,  how  many  glorious  breakfasts 
are  you  spoiling  with  those  villainous  teeth!" 

In  vain  I  stormed  and  threatened,  and  told  him 
that  I  would  never  speak  to  him  again,  that  I 
would  thrash  him,  that  I  had  seen  dogs  shot  for 
less  than  what  he  was  doing.  I  screamed  his  name 
until  I  was  hoarse,  but  it  was  all  useless.  Major 
cared  nothing  for  my  shouts,  and  went  on  worry- 
ing the  geese.  At  length,  when  he  grew  tired  of 
his  play,  he  coolly  jumped  into  the  water  and 
swam  back  to  me,  leaving  the  geese  behind.  I 
waited  for  him,  a  stick  in  my  hand,  burning  for 
vengeance,  and  fully  intending  to  collar  and 
thrash  him  well  the  moment  he  reached  me.  For- 
tunately he  had  a  long  distance  to  swim,  and  be- 
fore he  reached  land  I  began  to  reflect  that  if  I 
received  him  roughly,  with  blows,  I  would  never 
get  the  geese — those  three  magnificent  white  and 
maroon-colored  geese  that  had  cost  me  so  much 
labor  to  kill.  Yes,  I  thought,  it  will  be  better  to 
dissemble  and  be  diplomatic  and  receive  him  gra- 
ciously, and  then  perhaps  he  will  be  persuaded  to 
go  again  and  fetch  the  geese.  In  the  midst  of 
these  plans  Major  arrived,  and  sat  down  facing 


70  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

me  without  shaking  himself,  evidently  beginning 
to  experience  some  qualms  of  conscience. 

11  Major,"  said  I,  addressing  him  in  a  mild  gen- 
tle voice,  and  patting  his  wet  black  head,  "you 
have  treated  me  very  badly,  but  I  am  not  going  to 
punish  you — I  'm  going  to  give  you  another  chance, 
old  dog.  Now,  Major,  good  and  obedient  dog,  go 
and  fetch  me  the  geese. ' '  With  that  I  pushed  him 
gently  towards  the  water.  Major  understood  me, 
and  went  in,  although  in  a  somewhat  perfunctory 
manner,  and  swam  back  to  the  island.  On  reach- 
ing it  he  went  up  to  the  geese,  examined  them 
briefly  with  his  nose  and  sat  down  to  deliberate. 
I  called  him,  but  he  paid  no  attention.  With 
what  intense  anxiety  I  waited  his  decision. 

At  last  he  appeared  to  have  made  up  his  mind ; 
he  stood  up,  shook  himself  briskly  and — will  it  be 
believed? — began  to  worry  the  geese  again!  He 
was  not  merely  playing  with  them  now,  and  did 
not  scatter  the  feathers  about  and  bark,  but  bit 
and  tore  them  in  a  truculent  mood.  When  he  had 
torn  them  pretty  well  to  pieces  he  swam  back  once 
more,  but  this  time  he  came  to  land  at  a  long  dis- 
tance from  me,  knowing,  I  suppose,  that  I  was  now 
past  speaking  mildly  to  him;  and,  skulking 
through  the  reeds,  he  sneaked  home  by  himself. 
Later,  when  I  arrived  at  the  house,  he  carefully 
kept  out  of  my  way. 

I  believe  that  when  he  went  after  the  geese  the 
second  time  he  really  did  mean  to  bring  them  out, 
but  finding  them  so  much  mutilated  he  thought 


A  DOG  IN  EXILE  71 

that  he  had  already  hopelessly  offended  me,  and  so 
concluded  to  save  himself  the  labor  of  carrying 
them.  He  did  not  know,  poor  brute,  that  his 
fetching  them  would  have  been  taken  as  a  token  of 
repentance,  and  that  he  would  have  been  forgiven. 
But  it  was  impossible  to  forgive  him  now.  All 
faith  in  him  was  utterly  and  for  ever  gone,  and 
from  that  day  I  looked  on  him  as  a  poor  degraded 
creature;  and  if  I  ever  bestowed  a  caress  on  his 
upturned  face,  I  did  it  in  the  spirit  of  a  man 
who  flings  a  copper  to  an  unfortunate  beggar  in 
the  street;  and  it  was  a  satisfaction  to  me  that 
Major  appeared  to  know  what  I  thought  of  him. 
But  all  this  happened  years  ago,  and  now  I  can 
but  look  with  kindly  feelings  for  the  old  blind  re- 
triever who  retrieved  my  geese  so  badly.  I  can 
even  laugh  at  myself  for  having  allowed  an  in- 
eradicable anthropomorphism  to  carry  me  so  far 
in  recalling  and  describing  our  joint  adventures. 
But  such  a  fault  is  almost  excusable  in  this  in- 
stance, for  he  was  really  a  remarkable  dog  among 
other  dogs,  like  a  talented  man  among  his  fellow- 
men.  I  doubt  if  any  other  retriever,  in  such  cir- 
cumstances and  handicapped  by  such  an  infirm- 
ity, could  have  retrieved  that  splendid  flamingo; 
but  with  this  excellence  there  was  the  innate  ca- 
pacity to  go  wrong,  a  sudden  reversion  to  the 
irresponsible  wild  dog — the  devilry,  to  keep  to 
human  terms,  that  sent  him  into  exile  and  made 
him  at  the  last  so  interesting  and  pathetic  a  figure. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  WAR  WITH  NATURE 

DURING  my  sojourn  on  the  Rio  Negro  letters 
and  papers  reached  me  only  at  rare  inter- 
vals. On  one  occasion  I  passed  very  nearly  two 
months  without  seeing  a  newspaper.  I  remember, 
when  at  the  end  of  that  time  one  was  put  before 
me,  I  snatched  it  up  eagerly,  and  began  hastily 
scanning  the  columns,  or  column-headings  rather, 
in  search  of  startling  items  from  abroad,  and  that 
after  a  couple  of  minutes  I  laid  it  down  again  to 
listen  to  some  one  talking  in  the  room,  and  that 
I  eventually  left  the  place  without  reading  the 
paper  at  all.  I  suppose  I  snatched  it  up  at  first 
mechanically,  just  as  a  cat,  even  when  not  hungry, 
pounces  on  a  mouse  it  sees  scuttling  across  its 
path.  It  was  simply  the  survival  of  an  old  habit— 
a  trick  played  by  unconscious  memory  on  the  in- 
tellect, like  the  action  of  the  person  who  has  re- 
sided all  his  life  in  a  hovel,  and  who,  on  entering 
a  cathedral  door  or  passing  under  a  lofty  arch- 
way, unwittingly  stoops  to  avoid  bumping  his 
forehead  against  an  imaginary  lintel.  I  was  con- 
scious on  quitting  the  room,  where  I  had  cast 
aside  the  unread  newspaper,  that  the  old  interest 

72 


THE  WAE  WITH  NATURE  73 

in  the  affairs  of  the  world  at  large  had  in  a  great 
measure  forsaken  me;  yet  the  thought  did  not 
seem  a  degrading  one,  nor  was  I  at  all  startled  at 
this  newly-discovered  indifference,  though  up  till 
then  I  had  always  been  profoundly  interested  in 
the  moves  on  the  great  political  chessboard  of  the 
world.  How  had  I  spent  those  fifty  or  sixty  days, 
I  asked  myself,  and  from  what  enchanted  cup  had 
I  drunk  the  oblivious  draught  which  had  wrought 
so  great  a  change  in  me?  The  answer  was  that  I 
had  drunk  from  the  cup  of  nature,  that  my  days 
had  been  spent  with  peace.  It  then  also  seemed 
to  me  that  the  passion  for  politics,  the  perpetual 
craving  of  the  mind  for  some  new  thing,  is  after 
all  only  a  feverish  artificial  feeling,  a  necessary 
accompaniment  of  the  conditions  we  live  in,  per- 
haps, but  from  which  one  rapidly  recovers  when 
it  can  no  longer  be  pandered  to,  just  as  a  toper, 
when  removed  from  temptation,  recovers  a 
healthy  tone  of  body,  and  finds  to  his  surprise 
that  he  is  able  to  exist  without  the  aid  of  stimu- 
lants. It  is  easy  enough  to  relapse  from  this  free 
and  pleasant  condition;  in  the  latter  case  the 
emancipated  man  goes  back  to  the  bottle,  in  the 
former  to  the  perusal  of  leading  articles  and  of 
the  fiery  utterances  of  those  who  make  politics 
their  trade.  That  I  have  never  been  guilty  of 
backsliding  I  cannot  boast;  nevertheless  the  les- 
son nature  taught  me  in  that  lonely  country  was 
not  wholly  wasted,  and  while  I  was  in  that  con- 
dition of  mind  I  found  it  very  agreeable.  I  was 


74  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

delighted  to  discover  that  the  stimulus  derived 
from  many  daily  telegrams  and  much  discussion 
of  remote  probabilities  was  not  necessary  to  keep 
my  mind  from  lethargy.  Things  about  which  I 
had  hitherto  cared  little  now  occupied  my  thoughts 
and  supplied  me  with  pleasurable  excitement. 
How  fresh  and  how  human  it  seemed  to  feel  a 
keen  interest  in  the  village  annals,  the  domestic 
life,  the  simple  pleasures,  cares,  and  struggles  of 
the  people  I  lived  with !  This  is  a  feeling  only  to 
be  experienced  in  any  great  degree  by  the  soul  that 
has  ceased  to  vex  itself  with  the  ambitious  schemes 
of  Eussia,  the  attitude  of  the  Sublime  Porte,  and 
the  meeting  or  breaking  up  of  parliaments.  When 
the  Eastern  Question  had  lost  its  ancient  fascina- 
tion for  me  I  found  a  world  large  enough  for  my 
sympathies  in  the  little  community  of  men  and 
women  on  the  Rio  Negro.  Here  for  upwards  of  a 
century  the  colony  has  existed,  cut  off,  as  it  were, 
by  hundreds  of  desert  leagues  from  all  communion 
with  fellow-christians,  surrounded  by  a  great  wil- 
derness, waterless  and  overgrown  with  thorns, 
peopled  only  by  pumas,  ostriches,  and  wandering 
tribes  of  savage  men.  In  this  romantic  isolation 
the  colonists  spend  their  whole  lives,  roaming  in 
childhood  over  the  wooded  uplands;  in  after  life 
with  one  cloud  always  on  their  otherwise  sunlit 
horizon — the  fear  of  the  red  man,  and  always 
ready  to  fly  to  arms  and  mount  their  horses  when 
the  cannon  booms  forth  its  loud  alarm  from  the 
fort. 


THE  WAR  WITH  NATURE  75 

It  must  of  necessity  have  been  a  case  of  war  to 
the  knife  with  these  white  aliens — war  not  only 
with  the  wild  tribes  that  cherish  an  undying  feud 
against  the  robbers  of  their  inheritance,  but  also 
with  nature.  For  when  man  begins  to  cultivate 
the  soil,  to  introduce  domestic  cattle,  and  to  slay 
a  larger  number  of  wild  animals  than  he  requires 
for  food — and  civilized  man  must  do  all  that  to 
create  the  conditions  he  imagines  necessary  to  his 
existence — from  that  moment  does  he  place  him- 
self in  antagonism  with  nature,  and  has  there- 
after to  suffer  countless  persecutions  at  her  hands. 
After  a  century  of  residence  in  the  valley  the  col- 
onist has  established  his  position  so  that  he  can- 
not be  driven  out.  Twenty-five  years  ago  it  was 
still  possible  for  a  great  cacique  to  gallop  into 
the  town,  clattering  his  silver  harness  and  flour- 
ishing his  spear,  to  demand  with  loud  threats  of 
vengeance  his  unpaid  annual  tribute  of  cattle, 
knife-blades,  indigo,  and  cochineal.  Now  the  red 
man's  spirit  is  broken;  in  numbers  and  in  courage 
he  is  declining.  During  the  last  decade  the  desert 
places  have  been  abundantly  watered  with  his 
blood,  and,  before  many  years  are  over,  the  old 
vendetta  will  be  forgotten,  for  he  will  have  ceased 
to  exist. 

Nature,  albeit  now  without  his  aid,  still  main- 
tains the  conflict,  enlisting  the  elements,  with  bird, 
beast,  and  insect,  against  the  hated  white  dis- 
turber, whose  way  of  life  is  not  in  harmony  with 
her  way. 


76  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

There  are  the  animal  foes.  Pumas  infest  the 
settlement.  At  all  seasons  a  few  of  these  sly 
but  withal  audacious  robbers  haunt  the  riverside ; 
but  in  winter  a  great  many  lean  and  hungry  indi- 
viduals come  down  from  the  uplands  to  slay  the 
sheep  and  horses,  and  it  is  extremely  difficult  to 
track  them  to  their  hiding  places  in  the  thorny 
thickets  overhanging  the  valley.  I  was  told  that 
not  less  than  a  hundred  pumas  were  killed  annu- 
ally by  the  shepherds  and  herdsmen.  The  depre- 
dations of  the  locusts  are  on  a  much  larger  scale. 
In  summer  I  frequently  rode  over  miles  of  ground 
where  they  literally  carpeted  the  earth  with  their 
numbers,  rising  in  clouds  before  me,  causing  a 
sound  as  of  a  loud  wind  with  their  wings.  It  was 
always  the  same,  I  was  told ;  every  year  they  ap- 
peared at  some  point  in  the  valley  to  destroy  the 
crops  and  pasturage.  Then  there  were  birds  of 
many  species  and  in  incalculable  numbers.  To  an 
idle  sportsman  without  a  stake  in  the  country  it 
was  paradise.  At  one  spot  I  noticed  all  the  wheat 
ruined,  most  of  the  stalks  being  stripped  and 
broken,  presenting  a  very  curious  appearance;  I 
was  surprised  to  hear  from  the  owner  of  the 
desolate  fields  that  in  this  instance  the  coots  had 
been  the  culprits.  Thousands  of  these  birds  came 
up  from  the  river  every  night,  and  in  spite  of  all 
he  could  do  to  frighten  them  away  they  had  suc- 
ceeded in  wasting  his  corn. 

On  either  side  of  the  long  straggling  settlement 
spreads  the  uninhabited  desert — uninhabitable,  in 


UPLAND   GEESE 


THE  WAE  WITH  NATURE  77 

fact,  for  it  is  waterless,  with  a  sterile  gravelly  soil 
that  only  produces  a  thorny  vegetation  of  dwarf 
trees.  It  serves,  however,  as  a  breeding-place  for 
myriads  of  winged  creatures ;  and  never  a  season 
passes  but  it  sends  down  its  hungry  legions  of  one 
kind  or  another  into  the  valley.  During  my  stay 
pigeons,  ducks,  and  geese  were  the  greatest  foes 
of  the  farmer.  When  the  sowing  season  com- 
menced the  pigeons  (Columba  maculosa)  came  in 
myriads  to  devour  the  grain,  which  is  here  sown 
broadcast.  Shooting  and  poisoning  them  was 
practised  on  some  farms,  while  on  others  dogs 
were  trained  to  hunt  the  birds  from  the  ground; 
but  notwithstanding  all  these  measures,  hajf  the 
seed  committed  to  the  earth  was  devoured.  When 
the  corn  was  fully  ripe  and  ready  to  be  harvested 
then  came  the  brown  duck — Dafila  spinacauda — 
in  millions  to  feast  on  the  grain.  Early  in  winter 
the  arrival  of  the  migratory  upland  geese — Chloe- 
phaga  magellanica — was  dreaded.  It  is  scarcely 
possible  to  keep  them  from  the  fields  when  the 
wheat  is  young  or  just  beginning  to  sprout;  and 
I  have  frequently  seen  flocks  of  these  birds  quietly 
feeding  under  the  very  shadow  of  the  fluttering 
scarecrows  set  up  to  frighten  them.  They  do 
even  greater  injury  to  the  pasture-lands,  where 
they  are  often  so  numerous  as  to  denude  the  earth 
of  the  tender  young  clover,  thus  depriving  the 
sheep  of  their  only  food.  On  some  estates 
mounted  boys  were  kept  scouring  the  plains,  and 
driving  up  the  flocks  with  loud  shouts;  but  their 


78  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

labors  were  quite  profitless ;  fresh  armies  of  geese 
on  their  way  north  were  continually  pouring  in, 
making  a  vast  camping  ground  of  the  valley,  till 
scarcely  a  blade  of  grass  remained  for  the  perish- 
ing cattle. 

Viewed  from  a  distance,  in  comfortable  homes, 
this  contest  of  man  with  the  numberless  destruc- 
tive forces  of  nature  is  always  looked  on  as  the 
great  drawback  in  the  free  life  of  the  settler — the 
drop  of  bitter  in  the  cup  which  spoils  its  taste.  It 
is  a  false  notion,  although  it  would  no  doubt  be 
upheld  as  true  by  most  of  those  who  are  actually 
engaged  in  the  contest,  and  should  know.  This 
is  strange,  but  not  unaccountable.  Our  feelings 
become  modified  and  changed  altogether  with  re- 
gard to  many  things  as  we  progress  in  life,  and 
experience  widens,  but  in  most  cases  the  old  ex- 
pressions are  still  used.  We  continue  to  call  black 
black,  because  we  were  taught  so,  and  have  always 
called  it  black,  although  it  may  now  seem  purple 
or  blue  or  some  other  color.  We  learn  a  kind  of 
emasculated  language  in  the  nursery,  from  school- 
masters, and  books  written  indoors,  and  it  has 
to  serve  us.  It  proves  false,  but  its  falsity  is  per- 
haps never  clearly  recognized;  nature  emanci- 
pates us  and  the  feeling  changes,  but  there  has 
been  no  conscious  reasoning  on  the  matter,  and 
thought  is  vague.  One  hears  a  person  relating 
the  struggles  and  storms  of  his  early  or  past  life, 
and  receiving  without  protest  expressions  of  sym- 
pathy and  pity  from  his  listeners;  but  he  knows 


THE  WAR  WITH  NATUKE  79 

in  his  heart,  albeit  his  brain  may  be  and  generally 
is  in  a  mist,  that  these  were  the  very  things  that 
exhilarated  him,  that  if  he  had  missed  them  his 
life  would  have  been  savorless.  For  the  healthy 
man,  or  for  the  man  whose  virile  instincts  have 
not  become  atrophied  in  the  artificial  conditions 
we  exist  in,  strife  of  some  kind,  if  not  physical 
then  mental,  is  essential  to  happiness.  It  is  a 
principle  of  nature  that  only  by  means  of  strife 
can  strength  be  maintained.  No  sooner  is  any 
species  placed  above  it,  or  over-protected,  than 
degeneration  begins.  But  about  the  condition  of 
the  inferior  animals,  with  regard  to  the  compara- 
tive dullness  or  brightness  of  their  lives,  we  do 
not  concern  ourselves.  It  is  pleasant  to  be  able 
to  believe  that  they  are  all  in  a  sense  happy,  al- 
though hard  to  believe  that  they  are  happy  in 
the  same  degree.  The  sloth,  for  instance,  that 
most  over-protected  mammalian,  fast  asleep  as  he 
hugs  his  branch,  and  the  wild  cat  that  has  to  save 
himself,  and  must  for  ever  and  always  keep  all 
his  faculties  keen  and  brightly  polished.  With 
regard  to  man,  who  has  the  power  of  self -analysis 
and  of  seeing  in  his  own  mind  all  minds,  the  case 
is  very  different,  and  it  does  concern  us  to  know 
the  truth.  A  great  deal — very  many  pages,  chap- 
ters and  even  books — might  be  written  on  this 
subject,  but  to  write  them  is  happily  unnecessary, 
since  every  one  can  easily  find  out  the  truth  from 
his  own  experience.  This  will  tell  him  which 
satisfied  him  most  in  the  end — the  rough  days  or 


80  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

the  smooth  in  his  life ;  and  which  was  most  highly 
valued — the  good  he  struggled  for  or  that  which 
came  to  him  in  some  other  way.  Even  as  a  child, 
or  as  a  small  boy,  assuming  that  his  early  years 
were  passed  in  fairly  natural  conditions,  the 
knocks  and  bruises  and  scratches  and  stings  of  in- 
furiated humble  bees  he  suffered  served  only  to 
excite  a  spirit  that  had  something  of  conscious 
power  and  gladness  in  it ;  and  in  this  the  child  was 
father  to  the  man.  But  the  subject  which  specially 
concerns  me  just  now  is  the  settler's  life  in  some 
new  and  rough  district ;  and  as  it  appears  that  the 
greatest,  the  most  real,  and  in  many  cases  the  only 
pleasures  of  such  an  existence  are  habitually 
spoken  of  as  pains,  the  subject  is  one  on  which 
I  may  be  pardoned  for  dwelling  at  some 
length. 

If  Mill's  doctrine  be  true,  that  all  our  happiness 
results  from  delusion,  that  to  one  capable  of  see- 
ing things  as  they  are  life  must  be  an  intolerable 
burden,  then  it  may  seem  only  a  cruel  kindness  to 
whisper  into  the  ear  of  the  emigrant  the  warn- 
ing— "That  which  thou  goeth  forth  to  seek  thou 
shalt  not  find." 

It  is  not  said,  be  it  remembered,  that  he  will 
not  find  happiness,  which,  like  the  rain  and  sun- 
shine, although  in  more  moderate  measure,  comes 
alike  to  all  men ;  it  is  only  said  that  the  particular 
form  of  happiness  to  which  he  looks  forward  will 
never  be  his.  But  one  need  not  fear  to  whisper 
the  warning,  nor  even  to  shout  it  from  the  house- 


THE  WAE  WITH  NATURE  81 

tops,  for,  to  begin  with,  he  will  not  believe  nor 
listen  to  it.  His  mind  is  fixed  on  the  three  glori- 
ous prizes  that  lure  him  away — Adventure,  Dis- 
tinction, Gold.  These  bright  and  shining  apples 
are  perhaps  just  as  common  at  home  as  abroad, 
and  as  easily  gathered;  but  the  young  enthusiast, 
surveying  coasts  five  or  ten  thousand  miles  away 
through  his  mental  telescope,  sees  them  appar- 
ently hanging  on  very  much  lower  branches,  and 
imagines  that  to  pluck  them  he  has  only  to  trans- 
port himself  beyond  the  ocean.  To  drop  this  meta- 
phor, adventure  in  that  distant  place  will  be  as 
common  as  the  air  he  breathes,  giving  him  much 
invigorating  pleasure  by  the  way,  while  he  ad- 
vances to  possess  himself  of  other  more  satisfying 
things.  With  the  nimble  brains,  brave  spirit,  and 
willing  hands  characteristic  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  British  Islands,  he  will  assuredly  be  able 
to  achieve  distinction — that  pretty  bit  of  rib- 
bon which  most  men  are  willing  enough  to 
wear. 

This,  however,  is  only  a  matter  of  secondary  im- 
portance ;  the  chief  prize  will  always  be  the  yellow 
metal.  Knowing  how  much  can  be  done  with  it 
at  home  where  it  is  held  in  great  esteem,  he  will 
take  care  to  provide  himself  with  an  abundant  sup- 
ply against  his  return.  The  precise  way  in  which 
it  is  to  be  acquired  he  will  not  trouble  himself 
about  until  he  reaches  his  destination.  It  will  per- 
haps flow  in  upon  him  through  business  channels ; 
in  most  cases  it  will  be  thought  more  agreeable  to 


82  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

pick  it  up  in  its  native  state  during  his  walks 
abroad  in  the  forest.  The  simple-minded  aborigi- 
nes, always  ready  to  humor  an  eccentric  taste, 
will  assist  him  in  collecting  it;  and,  finally,  for  a 
small  consideration  in  the  form  of  colored  beads 
and  pocket-mirrors,  convey  it  in  large  sacks  and 
hampers  to  the  place  of  embarkation.  It  is  not 
meant  that  the  immigrant  in  all  cases  paints  his 
particular  delusion  in  colors  bright  as  these;  let 
him  shade  the  picture  until  it  corresponds  in  tone 
with  his  individual  creation — a  dream  and  a  delu- 
sion it  will  nevertheless  remain.  Not  in  these 
things  which  will  never  be  his,  nor  in  still  cherish- 
ing the  dream  will  he  find  his  pleasure,  but  in 
something  very  different. 

I  speak  not  of  that  large  percentage  of  immi- 
grants who  are  doomed  to  find  no  pleasure  at  all, 
and  no  good.  To  the  youth  of  ardent  generous 
temperament,  arrived  in  some  far-off  city  where 
all  men  are  free  and  equal,  and  the  starched  con- 
ventionalities of  the  old  world  are  unknown,  it  is 
perhaps  the  hardest  thing  to  believe  that  when  he 
slips  down  not  a  hand  will  be  put  forth  to  raise 
him;  that  when  he  pronounces  these  common 
words,  "I  have  come  to  the  end  of  my  tether,"  in- 
stantly all  the  smiling  faces  surrounding  him  will 
vanish  as  if  by  magic;  that  the  few  sovereigns 
remaining  in  his  pocket  at  any  time  are  as  a  chain, 
shortened  each  day  by  a  link,  holding  him  back 
from  some  terrible  destiny.  .  .  .  Let  us  delay  no 
longer  in  this  moral  place  of  skulls,  but  follow 


THE  WAS  WITH  NATUEE  83 

that  wise  and  sturdy  youth  who,  wrapping  his 
cloak  about  his  face,  passes  unharmed  through  the 
poisonous  atmosphere  of  the  landing-place,  and 
hurries  a  thousand  miles  away,  while  ever 

Before  him,  like  a  blood-red  flag, 

flutters  and  shines  the  dream  that  lures  him  on. 
And  now  at  his  journey's  end  comes  reality  to  lay 
rude  hands  on  him  with  rough  shaking.  Mean- 
while, before  he  has  quite  recovered  from  the 
shock,  that  red  flag  on  which  his  dreamy  eyes 
have  been  so  long  fixed  stays  not,  but  travels  on 
and  on  to  disappear  at  last  like  a  sunset  cloud  in 
the  distant  horizon.  He  does  not  miss  it  greatly 
after  all.  The  actual  is  much  in  his  thoughts. 
When  a  man  is  buffeting  the  waves  he  does  not 
curiously  examine  the  landscape  before  him  and 
complain  that  there  are  no  bright  flowers  on  the 
trees.  New  experience  takes  the  place  of  vanished 
dreams,  which,  like  water-lilies,  blossom  only  on 
stagnant  pools.  Here  are  none  of  the  innumerable 
appliances  to  secure  comfort  he  has  been  used  to 
from  infancy,  regarding  them  almost  as  spontane- 
ous productions  of  the  earth ;  no  hand  to  perform 
a  hundred  necessary  offices,  so  that  this  dainty 
gentleman  is  obliged  to  blacken  his  own  boots, 
tame  and  harness  to  the  plow  his  own  bullocks 
or  horses,  kill  and  cook  his  own  mutton.  Nothing 
is  here,  in  fact,  but  harsh  Nature  reluctant  to  be 
subdued;  while  he,  to  subdue  her  and  make  his 


84  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

own  conditions,  has  only  a  pair  of  soft  weak 
hands. 

To  one  fresh  from  the  softness  and  smoothness 
of  civilization,  unaccustomed  to  manual  labor,  how 
hard  then  is  the  lot  of  the  settler!  Behind  him 
physical  comfort  and  beautiful  dreams;  before 
him  the  prospect  of  long  years  of  unremitting  toil, 
every  day  of  which  will  unfit  him  more  and  more 
for  a  return  to  the  gentle  life  of  the  past;  while, 
for  only  result,  he  will  have  food  enough  to  satisfy 
hunger,  and  a  rude  shelter  from  extremes  of  heat 
and  cold,  from  torrents  of  winter  rain  and  blinding 
clouds  of  summer  dust.  Yet  is  he  happy.  For  the 
vanished  substantial  comforts  and  airy  splendors 
there  is  a  compensation  gilding  his  rough  existence 
with  a  better  brightness  than  that  of  any  hope 
of  future  prosperity  which  may  yet  linger  in  his 
mind.  It  is  the  feeling  the  settler  experiences 
from  the  moment  of  his  induction  into  the  desert 
that  he  is  engaged  in  a  conflict,  and  there  is  no 
feeling  comparable  with  it  to  put  a  man  on  his 
mettle  and  inspire  him  with  a  healthy  and  endur- 
ing interest  in  life.  To  this  feeling  is  added  the 
charm  of  novelty  caused  by  that  endless  proces- 
sion of  surprises  which  nature  prepares  for  the 
pioneer — an  experience  unknown  to  the  rural  life 
of  countries  that  have  long  been  under  cultiva- 
tion. The  greatest  drawbacks  and  difficulties  en- 
countered have  this  charm  strongest  in  them,  and 
are  robbed  by  it  of  half  their  power  to  discourage 
the  mind. 


THE  WAR  WITH  NATUEE  85 

The  young  enthusiast,  hurrying  about  London 
to  speak  his  farewells  and  look  after  his  outfit, 
will  perhaps  laugh  at  this,  for  his  delusion  is  still 
dear  to  him.  But  I  am  not  discouraging  him;  I 
am,  on  the  contrary,  telling  him  of  a  rill  of  pure 
water  out  there  where  he  is  going,  where,  for 
many  years  to  come,  he  will  refresh  himself  every 
day,  and  learn  to  feel  (if  not  to  think  and  to  say) 
that  it  is  the  sweetest  rill  in  existence. 

It  is  rough  living  with  unsubdued,  or  only  par- 
tially subdued,  Nature,  but  there  is  a  wonderful 
fascination  in  it.  The  patient,  leaden-footed,  but 
always  obedient  drudge,  who  goes  forth  uncom- 
plainingly, albeit  often  with  a  sullen  face,  about 
her  work,  day  after  day,  year  after  year;  who 
never  rebels,  never  murmurs  against  her  bad  task- 
master Man,  although  sometimes  the  strength  fails 
her  so  that  she  cannot  complete  the  appointed  task 
- — this  is  Nature  at  home  in  England.  How  strange 
to  see  this  stolid,  immutable  creature  transformed 
beyond  the  seas  into  a  flighty,  capricious  thing, 
that  will  not  be  wholly  ruled  by  you,  a  beautiful 
wayward  Undine,  delighting  you  with  her  origi- 
nality, and  most  lovable  when  she  teases  most;  a 
being  of  extremes,  always  either  in  laughter  or 
tears,  a  tyrant  and  a  slave  alternately;  to-day 
shattering  to  pieces  the  work  of  yesterday;  now 
cheerfully  doing  more  than  is  required  of  her; 
anon  the  frantic  vixen  that  buries  her  malignant 
teeth  into  the  hand  that  strikes  or  caresses  her. 
All  these  rapid  incomprehensible  changes,  even 


86  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

when  most  vexing  and  destructive  to  your  plans, 
interest  your  mind,  and  call  up  a  hundred  latent 
energies  it  is  a  joy  to  discover.  But  you  have 
not  yet  sounded  all  her  depths;  nor  can  you  im- 
agine, seeing  her  frequent  gay  smiles,  to  what 
length  her  fierce  resentment  may  carry  her. 
Sometimes,  as  if  roused  to  sudden  frenzy  at  the 
indignities  you  are  subjecting  her  to — hacking  at 
her  trees,  turning  up  her  cushioned  soil,  and 
trampling  down  her  grass  and  flowers — she  ar- 
rays herself  in  her  blackest,  most  terrible  aspect, 
and  like  a  beautiful  woman  who  in  her  fury  has  no 
regard  for  her  beauty,  she  plucks  up  her  noblest 
trees  by  the  roots,  and  scooping  up  the  very  soil 
from  the  earth  whirls  it  aloft  to  give  a  more  hor- 
rible gloom  to  the  heavens.  And  darkness  not  be- 
ing terrifying  enough,  she  kindles  up  the  mighty 
chaos  she  has  created  into  a  blaze  of  intolerable 
light,  while  the  solid  world  is  shaken  to  its  foun- 
dations with  her  wrathful  thunders.  When  de- 
struction seems  about  to  fall  on  man  and  all  his 
works,  when  you  are  prostrate  and  ready  to  perish 
with  excessive  fear,  lo,  the  mood  changes,  the  furi- 
ous passion  has  spent  itself,  and  there  is  no  trace 
left  of  it  when  you  look  up  only  to  encounter  her 
peaceful  reassuring  smile.  These  sublime  moods 
are,  however,  infrequent  and  soon  forgotten ;  man 
learns  to  despise  the  threats  of  a  cataclysm  that 
never  comes,  and  goes  forth  once  more  to  level  the 
ancient  trees,  to  invert  the  soil,  and  pasture  his 
herds  on  her  grasses  and  flowers.  He  will  sub- 


THE  WAR  WITH  NATURE  87 

due  the  wild  thing  at  last,  but  not  yet ;  many  years 
will  she  struggle  to  retain  her  ancient  sweet  su- 
premacy ;  he  cannot  alter  all  at  once  the  old  order 
to  which  she  clings  tenaciously,  as  the  red  man 
to  his  savage  life.  Her  attempt  to  frighten  him 
away  has  failed.  He  laughs  at  her  mask  of  ter- 
rors— he  knows  that  it  is  only  a  mask;  and  it 
suffocates  her  and  cannot  be  long  endured.  She 
will  cast  it  aside  and  fight  him  another  way.  She 
will  stoop  to  his  yoke  and  be  docile  only  to  betray 
and  defeat  him  at  the  last.  A  thousand  strange 
tricks  and  surprises  will  she  invent  to  molest  him. 
In  a  hundred  forms  she  will  buzz  in  his  ears  and 
prick  his  flesh  with  stings ;  she  will  sicken  him  with 
the  perfume  of  flowers,  and  poison  him  with  sweet 
honey;  and  when  he  lies  down  to  rest,  she  will 
startle  him  with  the  sudden  apparition  of  a  pair 
of  lidless  eyes  and  a  flickering  forked  tongue.  He 
scatters  the  seed,  and  when  he  looks  for  the  green 
heads  to  appear,  the  earth  opens,  and  lo,  an  army 
of  long-faced,  yellow  grasshoppers  come  forth! 
She,  too,  walking  invisible  at  his  side  had  scat- 
tered her  miraculous  seed  along  with  his.  He 
will  not  be  beaten  by  her,  he  slays  her  striped  and 
spotted  creatures;  he  dries  up  her  marshes;  he 
consumes  her  forests  and  prairies  with  fire,  and 
her  wild  things  perish  in  myriads;  he  covers  her 
plains  with  herds  of  cattle,  and  waving  fields  of 
corn,  and  orchards  of  fruit-bearing  trees.  She 
hides  her  bitter  wrath  in  her  heart,  secretly  she 
goes  out  at  dawn  of  day  and  blows  her  trumpet 


88  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

on  the  hills,  summoning  her  innumerable  children 
to  her  aid.  She  is  hard-pressed  and  cries  to  her 
children  that  love  her  to  come  and  deliver  her. 
Nor  are  they  slow  to  hear.  From  north  and  south, 
from  east  and  west,  they  come  in  armies  of  creep- 
ing things  and  in  clouds  that  darken  the  air.  Mice 
and  crickets  swarm  in  the  fields;  a  thousand  in- 
solent birds  pull  his  scarecrows  to  pieces,  and 
carry  off  the  straw  stumng  to  build  their  nests; 
every  green  thing  is  devoured ;  the  trees,  stripped 
of  their  bark,  stand  like  great  white  skeletons  in 
the  bare  desolate  fields,  cracked  and  scorched  by 
the  pitiless  sun.  When  he  is  in  despair  deliver- 
ance comes ;  famine  falls  on  the  mighty  host  of  his 
enemies;  they  devour  each  other  and  perish  ut- 
terly. Still  he  lives  to  lament  his  loss;  to  strive 
still,  unsubdued  and  resolute.  She,  too,  laments 
her  lost  children,  which  now,  being  dead,  serve 
only  to  fertilize  the  soil  and  give  fresh  strength 
to  her  implacable  enemy.  And  she,  too,  is  unsub- 
dued; she  dries  her  tears  and  laughs  again;  she 
has  found  out  a  new  weapon  it  will  take  him  long 
to  wrest  from  her  hands.  Out  of  many  little  hum- 
ble plants  she  fashions  the  mighty  noxious  weeds ; 
they  spring  up  in  his  footsteps,  following  him 
everywhere,  and  possess  his  fields  like  parasites, 
sucking  up  their  moisture  and  killing  their  fertil- 
ity. Everywhere,  as  if  by  a  miracle,  is  spread  the 
mantle  of  rich,  green,  noisome  leaves,  and  the  corn 
is  smothered  in  beautiful  flowers  that  yield  only 
bitter  seed  and  poison  fruit.  He  may  cut  them 


THE  WAE  WITH  NATURE  89 

down  in  the  morning,  in  the  night  time  they  will 
grow  again.  With  her  beloved  weeds  she  will 
wear  out  his  spirit  and  break  his  heart;  she  will 
sit  still  at  a  distance  and  laugh  while  he  grows 
weary  of  the  hopeless  struggle ;  and,  at  last,  when 
he  is  ready  to  faint,  she  will  go  forth  once  more 
and  blow  her  trumpet  on  the  hills  and  call  her  in- 
numerable children  to  come  and  fall  on  and  de- 
stroy him  utterly. 

This  is  no  mere  fancy  portrait,  for  Nature  her- 
self sat  for  it  in  the  desert,  and  it  is  painted  in  true 
colors.  Such  is  the  contest  the  settler  embarks 
in — so  various  in  its  fortunes,  so  full  of  great  and 
sudden  vicissitudes,  calling  for  so  much  vigilance 
and  strategy  on  his  part.  If  the  dreams  he  sets 
out  with  are  never  realized,  he  is  no  worse  off 
in  this  respect  than  others.  To  one,  born  and 
bred  on  the  plains,  the  distant  mountain  range  is 
ever  a  region  of  enchantment ;  when  he  reaches  it 
the  glory  is  no  more ;  the  opalescent  tints  and  blue 
ethereal  shadows  of  noon,  the  violet  hues  of  the 
sunset  have  vanished.  There  is  nothing  after  all 
but  a  rude  confusion  of  piled  rocks ;  but  although 
this  is  not  what  he  expected,  he  ends  by  preferring 
the  mountain's  roughness  to  the  monotony  of  the 
plain.  The  man  who  finishes  his  course  by  a  fall 
from  his  horse,  or  is  swept  away  and  drowned 
when  fording  a  swollen  stream,  has,  in  most  cases, 
spent  a  happier  life  than  he  who  dies  of  apoplexy 
in  a  counting-house  or  dining-room ;  or,  who,  find- 
ing that  end  which  seemed  so  infinitely  beautiful 


90  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

to  Leigh.  Hunt  (which  to  me  seems  so  unutterably 
hateful),  drops  his  white  face  on  the  open  book 
before  him.  Certainly  he  has  been  less  world- 
weary,  and  has  never  been  heard  to  whine  and 
snivel  about  the  vanity  of  all  things. 


CHAPTER  VH 
LIFE  IN  PATAGONIA 

FROM  the  dribbling  warfare  described  in  the 
last  chapter,  with  clouds  of  winged  things  for 
principal  enemy,  let  us  go  back  once  more  to  that 
sterner  conflict  with  hostile  men,  in  which  the  iso- 
lated little  colony  has  so  often  been  involved  dur- 
ing its  century  of  existence.  One  episode  from 
its  eventful  history  I  wish  to  relate,  for  in  this 
instance  the  Patagonians  had,  for  once,  to  oppose 
a  foreign  and  civilized  foe.  The  story  is  so 
strange,  even  in  the  romantic  annals  of  South 
America,  as  to  seem  almost  incredible.  The  main 
facts  are,  however,  to  be  found  in  historical  docu- 
ments. The  details  given  here  were  taken  from 
the  lips  of  persons  living  on  the  spot,  and  who 
had  been  familiar  with  the  story  from  childhood. 
Very  early  in  this  century  the  Brazilians  became 
convinced  that  in  the  Argentine  nation  they  had  a 
determined  foe  to  their  aggressive  and  plunder- 
ing policy,  and  for  many  years  they  waged  war 
against  Buenos  Ayres,  putting  forth  all  their 
feeble  energies  in  operations  by  land  and  sea  to 
crush  their  troublesome  neighbor,  until  1828,  when 
they  finally  abandoned  the  contest.  During  this 

91 


92  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

war  the  Imperialists  conceived  the  idea  of  captur- 
ing the  Patagonian  settlement  of  El  Carmen, 
which  they  knew  to  be  quite  unprotected.  Three 
ships  of  war,  with  a  large  number  of  soldiers,  were 
sent  out  to  effect  this  insignificant  conquest,  and 
in  due  time  reached  the  Eio  Negro.  One  of  the 
ships  came  to  grief  on  the  bar,  which  is  very  diffi- 
cult ;  and  there  it  eventually  became  a  total  wreck. 
The  other  two  succeeded  in  getting  safely  into  the 
river.  The  troops,  to  the  number  of  500  men, 
were  disembarked  and  sent  on  to  capture  the 
town,  which  is  twenty  miles  distant  from  the  sea. 
The  ships  at  the  same  time  proceeded  up  the  river, 
though  it  was  scarcely  thought  that  their  co- 
operation would  be  required  to  take  so  weak  a 
place  as  the  Carmen.  Happily  for  the  colonists, 
the  Imperial  armada  found  the  navigation  difficult, 
and  one  of  the  ships  ran  on  to  a  sandbank  about 
half  way  to  the  town;  the  other  proceeded  alone 
only  to  arrive  when  it  was  all  over  with  the  land 
force.  This  force,  finding  it  impossible  to  con- 
tinue its  march  near  the  river,  owing  to  the  steep 
hills  intersected  by  valleys  and  ravines  and  cov- 
ered with  a  dense  forest  of  thorns,  was  compelled 
to  take  a  circuitous  route  leading  it  several  miles 
away  from  the  water.  Tidings  of  the  approaching 
army  soon  reached  the  Carmen,  and  all  able-bodied 
men  within  call  were  quickly  mustered  in  the  fort. 
They  numbered  only  seventy,  but  the  Patagonians 
were  determined  to  defend  themselves.  Women 
and  children  were  brought  into  the  fort ;  guns  were 


LIFE  IN  PATAGONIA  93 

loaded  and  placed  in  position;  then  the  com- 
mander had  a  happy  inspiration,  and  all  the 
strong  women  were  made  to  display  themselves  on 
the  walls  in  male  attire.  Dummy  soldiers,  hastily 
improvised  from  blocks  of  wood,  bolsters,  and 
other  materials,  were  also  placed  at  intervals; 
so  that  when  the  Brazilians  arrived  in  sight  they 
were  surprised  to  see  four  or  five  hundred  men, 
as  they  thought,  on  the  ramparts  before  them. 
From  the  high  ground  behind  the  town  where  they 
had  halted  they  commanded  a  view  of  the  river  for 
several  miles,  but  the  expected  ships  were  not  yet 
in  sight.  The  day  had  been  oppressively  hot,  with- 
out a  cloud,  and  that  march  of  about  thirty  miles 
over  the  waterless  desert  had  exhausted  the  men. 
Probably  they  had  been  suffering  from  sea-sick- 
ness during  the  voyage;  at  any  rate,  they  were 
now  mad  with  thirst,  worn  out,  and  not  in  a  fit 
state  to  attack  a  position  seemingly  so  strongly 
defended.  They  determined  to  retire,  and  wait 
for  a  day  or  two,  and  then  attack  the  place  in  con- 
cert with  the  ships.  To  the  joy  and  amazement 
of  the  Patagonians,  their  formidable  enemy  left 
without  firing  a  shot.  Another  happy  inspiration 
came  to  the  aid  of  the  commander,  and  as  soon 
as  the  Brazilians  had  disappeared  behind  the  ris- 
ing ground,  his  seventy  men  were  hastily  dis- 
patched to  collect  and  bring  in  all  the  horses  pas- 
turing in  the  valley.  When  the  invaders  had  been 
about  three  or  four  hours  on  their  spiritless  re- 
turn march,  the  thunder  of  innumerable  hoofs  was 


94  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

heard  behind  them,  and  looking  back,  they  beheld 
a  great  army,  as  they  imagined  in  their  terror, 
charging  down  upon  them.  These  were  their  sev- 
enty foes  spread  in  an  immense  half-moon,  in 
the  hollow  of  which  over  a  thousand  horses  were 
being  driven  along  at  frantic  speed.  The  Brazil- 
ians received  their  equine  enemy  with  a  discharge 
of  musketry;  but  though  many  horses  were  slain 
or  wounded,  the  frantic  yells  of  the  drivers  behind 
still  urged  them  on,  and  in  a  few  moments,  blind 
with  panic,  they  were  trampling  down  the  invad- 
ers. In  the  meantime  the  Patagonians  were  firing 
into  the  confused  mass  of  horses  and  men ;  and  by 
a  singular  chance — a  miracle  it  was  held  to  be  at  the 
time — the  officer  commanding  the  Imperial  troops 
was  shot  dead  by  a  stray  bullet;  then  the  men 
threw  down  their  arms  and  surrendered  at  dis- 
cretion— 500  disciplined  soldiers  of  the  Empire  to 
seventy  poor  Patagonians,  mostly  farmers,  trades- 
men, and  artisans.  The  honor  of  the  Empire  was 
very  little  to  those  famishing  wretches  crying  out 
with  frothing  mouths  for  water  instead  of  quar- 
ter. Leaving  their  muskets  scattered  about  the 
plain,  they  were  marched  by  their  captors  down 
to  the  river,  which  was  about  four  miles  off,  and 
reached  it  at  a  point  just  where  the  bank  slopes 
down  between  the  Parrot's  Cliff  on  one  side,  and 
the  house  I  resided  in  on  the  other.  Like  a  herd 
of  cattle  maddened  with  thirst,  they  rushed  into 
the  water,  trampling  each  other  down  in  their 
haste,  so  that  many  were  smothered,  while  others, 


LIFE  IN  PATAGONIA  95 

pushed  too  far  out  by  the  surging  mass  behind, 
were  swept  from  their  feet  by  the  swift  current 
and  drowned.  When  they  had  drunk  their  fill, 
they  were  driven  like  cattle  to  the  Carmen  and 
shut  up  within  the  fort.  In  the  evening  the  ship 
arrived  before  the  town,  and,  going  a  little  too 
near  the  shore  on  the  opposite  side,  ran  aground. 
The  men  in  her  were  quickly  apprised  of  the  dis- 
aster which  had  overtaken  the  land  force ;  mean- 
while the  resolute  Patagonians,  concealed  amongst 
the  trees  on  the  shore,  began  to  pepper  the  deck 
with  musket-balls;  the  Brazilians,  in  terror  for 
their  lives,  leaped  into  the  water  and  swam  to 
land;  and  when  darkness  fell,  the  colonists  had 
crowned  their  brave  day's  work  by  the  capture 
of  the  Imperial  war-vessel  Itaparica.  No  doubt 
it  was  soon  pulled  to  pieces,  good  building  mate- 
rial being  rather  expensive  on  the  Eio  Negro;  a 
portion  of  the  wreck,  however,  still  lies  in  the 
river,  and  often,  when  the  tide  was  low,  and  those 
old  brown  timbers  came  up  above  the  surface, 
like  the  gaunt  fossil  ribs  of  some  gigantic  Pliocene 
monster,  I  have  got  out  of  my  boat  and  stood 
upon  them  experiencing  a  feeling  of  great  satis- 
faction. Thus  the  awful  war-cloud  burst,  and  the 
little  colony,  by  pluck  and  cunning  and  readiness 
to  strike  at  the  proper  moment,  saved  itself  from 
the  disgrace  of  being  conquered  by  the  infamous 
Empire  of  the  tropics. 

During  my  residence  at  the  house  alongside  the 
Parrot's  Cliff,  one  of  our  neighbors  I  was  very 


96  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

much  interested  in  was  a  man  named  Sosa.  He 
was  famed  for  an  almost  preternatural  keenness 
of  sight,  had  great  experience  of  the  wild  life  of 
the  frontier,  and  was  always  employed  as  a  scout 
in  times  of  Indian  warfare.  He  was  also  a  cele- 
brated horse-thief.  His  horse-stealing  propensi- 
ties were  ineradicable,  and  had  to  be  winked  at  on 
account  of  his  usefulness;  so  that  he  was  left  in 
a  great  measure  to  his  own  devices.  He  was,  in 
fact,  a  fox  hired  to  act  as  watch-dog  to  the  colony 
in  times  of  danger ;  and  though  the  victims  of  his 
numberless  thefts  had  always  been  anxious  to 
wreak  personal  vengeance  on  him,  his  vulpine  sa- 
gacity had  so  far  enabled  him  to  escape  them  all. 
My  interest  in  him  arose  from  the  fact  that  he  was 
the  son  of  a  man  whose  name  figures  in  Argen- 
tine history.  Sosa's  father  was  an  illiterate 
gaucho — a  man  of  the  plains — possessing  faculties 
so  keen  that  to  ordinary  beings  his  feats  of  vision 
and  hearing,  and  his  sense  of  direction  on  the 
monotonous  pampas,  seemed  almost  miraculous. 
As  he  also  possessed  other  qualities  suitable  to  a 
leader  of  men  in  a  semi-savage  region,  he  rose  in 
time  to  the  command  of  the  southwestern  frontier, 
where  his  numerous  victories  over  the  Indians 
gave  him  so  great  a  prestige  that  the  jealousy  of 
the  Dictator  Rosas — the  Nero  of  South  America, 
as  he  was  called  by  his  enemies — was  roused,  and 
at  his  instigation  Sosa  was  removed  by  means  of 
a  cup  of  poison.  The  son,  though  in  all  other  re- 
spects a  degenerate  being,  inherited  his  father's 


LIFE  IN  PATAGONIA  97 

wonderful  senses.  One  instance  of  his  keen-sight- 
edness  which  I  heard  struck  me  as  very  curious. 
In  1861  Sosa  had  found  it  prudent  to  disappear 
for  a  season  from  the  colony,  and  in  the  company 
of  five  or  six  more  gauchos — also  offenders  against 
the  law,  who  had  flown  to  the  refuge  of  the  des- 
ert— he  amused  himself  by  hunting  ostriches  along 
the  Rio  Colorado.  On  the  12th  of  March  the  hunt- 
ers were  camping  beside  a  grove  of  willows  in 
the  valley,  and  about  nine  o'clock  that  evening, 
while  seated  round  the  fire  roasting  their  ostrich 
meat,  Sosa  suddenly  sprang  to  his  feet  and  held 
his  open  hand  high  above  his  head  for  some  mo- 
ments. l '  There  is  not  a  breath  of  wind  blowing, ' ' 
he  exclaimed,  "yet  the  leaves  of  the  trees  are 
trembling.  What  can  this  portend  1 ' '  The  others 
stared  at  the  trees,  but  could  see  no  motion,  and 
began  to  laugh  and  jeer  at  him.  Presently  he  sat 
down  again,  remarking  that  the  trembling  had 
ceased;  but  during  the  rest  of  the  evening  he 
seemed  very  much  disturbed  in  his  mind.  He  re- 
marked repeatedly  that  such  a  thing  had  never 
happened  in  his  experience  before,  for,  he  said,  he 
could  feel  a  breath  of  wind  before  the  leaves  felt 
it,  and  there  had  been  no  wind;  he  feared  that  it 
was  a  warning  of  some  disaster  about  to  overtake 
their  party.  The  disaster  was  not  for  them.  On 
that  evening,  when  Sosa  sprang  up  terrified  and 
pointed  to  the  leaves  which  to  the  others  appeared 
motionless,  occurred  the  earthquake  which  de- 
stroyed the  distant  city  of  Mendoza,  crushing 


98  IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

twelve  thousand  people  to  death  in  its  fall.  That 
the  subterranean  wave  extended  east  to  the  Plata, 
and  southwards  into  Patagonia,  was  afterwards 
known,  for  in  the  cities  of  Bosario  and  Buenos 
Ayres  clocks  stopped,  and  a  slight  shock  was  also 
experienced  in  the  Carmen  on  the  Eio  Negro. 

My  host,  whose  Christian  name  was  Ventura, 
being  a  Patagonian  by  birth,  and  not  far  off  fifty 
years  old,  must,  I  imagined,  have  seen  a  thousand 
things  worth  relating,  and  I  frequently  impor- 
tuned him  to  tell  some  of  his  early  experiences  in 
the  settlement.  But  somehow  he  invariably  drifted 
into  amorous  and  gambling  reminiscences,  inter- 
esting in  their  way,  some  of  them,  but  they  were 
not  the  kind  of  recollections  I  wished  to  hear.  The 
empire  of  his  affections  had  been  divided  between 
Cupid  and  cards;  and  apparently  everything  he 
had  seen  or  experienced  in  fifty  eventful  years, 
unless  it  had  some  relation  to  one  of  these  two 
divinities,  was  clean  forgotten — cast  away  from 
him  like  the  ends  of  the  innumerable  cigarettes 
he  had  been  smoking  all  his  life.  Once,  however, 
a  really  interesting  adventure  of  his  boyhood  was 
recalled  accidentally  to  his  mind.  He  came  home 
one  evening  from  the  Carmen,  where  he  had  been 
spending  the  day,  and  during  supper  told  me  the 
following  story. 

When  he  was  about  sixteen  years  old  he  was 
sent  one  day  with  four  others — three  lads  like 
himself,  and  a  middle-aged  man  named  Marcos  in 
charge  of  them — with  a  herd  of  horses  required 


LIFE  IN  PATAGONIA  99 

for  military  service  at  a  place  twenty-five  leagues 
up  the  river.  For,  at  that  period,  every  person 
was  at  the  beck  and  call  of  the  commander  of  the 
colony.  Half  way  to  their  destination  there  was 
a  corral,  or  cattle-enclosure,  standing  two  or  three 
hundred  yards  from  the  river,  but  miles  away 
from  any  habitation.  They  drove  their  animals 
into  the  corral,  and,  after  unsaddling  and  turning 
loose  the  beasts  they  had  ridden,  were  about  to 
catch  fresh  horses,  when  a  troop  of  Indians  was 
spied  charging  down  upon  them.  "Follow  me, 
boys!"  shouted  Marcos,  for  there  was  no  time 
to  lose,  and  away  they  rushed  to  the  river,  throw- 
ing off  their  clothes  as  they  ran.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments they  were  in  the  water  swimming  for  life, 
the  shouts  of  the  savages  ringing  in  their  ears. 
The  river  at  this  point  was  about  eight  hundred 
feet  broad,  with  a  strong  current,  and  two  of  the 
lads  dared  not  venture  across,  but  escaped,  diving 
and  swimming  along  under  the  shadow  of  the 
bank  like  a  couple  of  water-rats  or  wounded  ducks, 
and  finally  concealed  themselves  in  a  reed  bed  at 
some  distance.  The  others,  led  by  Marcos,  being 
good  swimmers  like  most  of  the  Patagonians, 
struck  boldly  out  for  the  opposite  shore.  But 
when  they  approached  it  and  were  beginning  to 
congratulate  themselves  on  their  escape,  they 
were  suddenly  confronted  with  another  party  of 
mounted  Indians,  standing  a  few  yards  back  from 
the  margin  and  quietly  waiting  their  arrival.  They 
turned  and  swam  away  to  the  middle  of  the  stream 


100         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

once  more :  here  one  of  them,  a  youth  named  Da- 
mian,  began  to  exclaim  that  he  was  getting  tired, 
and  would  sink  unless  Marcos  would  save  him. 
Marcos  told  him  to  save  himself  if  he  could ;  then 
Damian,  bitterly  reproaching  him  for  his  selfish- 
ness, declared  that  he  would  swim  back  to  the 
side  they  had  started  from  and  give  himself  up 
to  the  Indians.  Naturally  they  made  no  objection, 
being  unable  to  help  him;  and  so  Damian  left 
them,  and  when  the  Indians  saw  him  approaching 
they  got  off  their  horses  and  came  down  to  the 
margin,  their  lances  in  their  hands.  Of  course 
Damian  knew  right  well  that  savages  seldom  bur- 
den themselves  with  a  male  captive  when  they 
happen  to  be  out  on  the  war-path;  but  he  was  a 
clever  boy,  and  though  death  by  steel  was  more 
painful  than  death  by  drowning,  there  was  still  a 
faint  chance  that  his  captors  might  have  compas- 
sion on  him.  He  began,  in  fact,  to  appeal  to  their 
mercy  from  the  moment  he  abandoned  his  com- 
panions. ''Indians!  friends!  brothers!"  he 
shouted  aloud  from  the  water.  ' '  Do  not  kill  me : 
in  heart  I  am  an  Indian  like  one  of  yourselves,  and 
no  Christian.  My  skin  is  white,  I  know;  but  I  hate 
my  own  race,  to  escape  from  them  has  always  been 
my  one  desire.  To  live  with  the  Indians  I  love, 
in  the  desert,  that  is  the  only  wish  of  my  heart. 
Spare  me,  brothers,  take  me  with  you,  and  I  will 
serve  you  all  my  life.  Let  me  live  with  you,  hunt 
with  you,  fight  with  you — especially  against  the 
hated  Christians." 


LIFE  IN  PATAGONIA  101 

In  the  middle  of  the  river  Marcos  lifted  up  his 
face  and  laughed  hoarsely  to  hear  this  eloquent 
address ;  though  they  expected  to  see  poor  Damian 
thrust  through  with  spears  the  very  next  moment, 
he  could  not  help  laughing.  They  watched  him  ar- 
rive, still  loudly  crying  out  for  mercy,  astonishing 
them  very  much  with  his  oratorical  powers,  for 
Damian  had  not  hitherto  made  any  display  of  this 
kind  of  talent.  The  Indians  took  him  by  the  hands 
and  drew  him  out  of  the  water,  then,  surrounding 
him,  walked  him  away  to  the  corral,  and  from 
that  moment  Damian  disappeared  from  the  val- 
ley; for  on  a  search  being  made  afterwards,  not 
even  his  bones,  picked  clean  by  vultures  and  foxes, 
could  be  found. 

After  seeing  the  last  of  their  comrade,  and 
keeping  themselves  afloat  with  the  least  possible 
exertion,  Marcos  and  Ventura  were  carried  down 
the  stream  by  the  swift  current  till  they  gained  a 
small  island  in  the  middle  of  the  river.  With  the 
drift-wood  found  on  it  they  constructed  a  raft, 
binding  the  sticks  together  with  long  grass  and 
rushes,  and  on  it  they  floated  down  stream  to  the 
inhabited  portion  of  the  valley,  and  so  eventually 
made  their  escape. 

The  reason  why  my  host  told  me  this  story  in- 
stead of  one  of  his  usual  love  intrigues  or  gam- 
bling adventures  was  because  that  very  day  he 
had  seen  Damian  once  more,  just  returned  to  the 
settlement  where  he  had  so  long  been  forgotten  by 
every  one.  Thirty  years  of  exposure  to  the  sun 


102         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

and  wind  of  the  desert  had  made  him  so  brown, 
while  in  manner  and  speech  he  had  grown  so  like 
an  Indian,  that  the  poor  amateur  savage  found 
it  hard  at  first  to  establish  his  identity.  His  rela- 
tions had,  however,  been  poor,  and  had  long 
passed  away,  leaving  nothing  for  him  to  inherit, 
so  that  there  was  no  reason  to  discredit  his 
strange  story.  He  related  that  when  the  Indians 
drew  him  from  the  water  and  carried  him  back 
to  the  corral  they  disagreed  among  themselves  as 
to  what  they  should  do  to  him.  Luckily  one  of 
them  understood  Spanish,  and  translated  to  the 
others  the  substance  of  Damian's  speech  delivered 
from  the  water.  When  they  questioned  their  cap- 
tive he  invented  many  other  ingenious  lies,  say- 
ing that  he  was  a  poor  orphan  boy,  and  that  the 
cruel  treatment  his  master  subjected  him  to  had 
made  him  resolve  to  escape  to  the  Indians.  The 
only  feeling  he  had  towards  his  own  race,  he  as- 
sured them,  was  one  of  undying  animosity;  and 
he  was  ready  to  vow  that  if  they  would  only  let 
him  join  their  tribe  he  would  always  be  ready  for 
a  raid  on  the  Christian  settlement.  To  see  the 
entire  white  race  swept  away  with  fire  and  steel 
was,  in  fact,  the  cherished  hope  of  his  heart. 
Their  savage  breasts  were  touched  with  his  pite- 
ous tale  of  sufferings;  his  revengeful  feelings 
were  believed  to  be  genuine,  and  they  took  him  to 
their  own  home,  where  he  was  permitted  to  share 
in  the  simple  delights  of  the  aborigines.  They  be- 
longed to  a  tribe  very  powerful  at  that  time,  in- 


LIFE  IN  PATAGONIA  103 

habiting  a  district  called  Las  Manzanas — that  is, 
the  Apple  Country — situated  at  the  sources  of  the 
Eio  Negro  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Andes. 

There  is  a  tradition  that  shortly  after  the  con- 
quest of  South  America  a  few  courageous  Jesuit 
priests  crossed  over  from  Chili  to  the  eastern 
slopes  of  the  Andes  to  preach  Christianity  to  the 
tribes  there,  and  that  they  took  with  them  imple- 
ments of  husbandry,  grain,  and  seeds  of  European 
fruits.  The  missionaries  soon  met  their  death, 
and  all  that  remained  of  their  labors  among  the 
heathen  were  a  few  apple-trees  they  had  planted. 
These  trees  found  a  soil  and  climate  so  favorable, 
"xat  they  soon  began  to  propagate  spontaneously, 

coming  exceedingly  abundant.  Certain  it  is  that 

w,  after  two  or  three  centuries  of  neglect  by 
man,  these  wild  apple-trees  still  yield  excellent 
fruit,  which  the  Indians  eat,  and  from  which  they 
also  make  a  fermented  liquor  they  call  chi-chi. 

To  this  far-off  fertile  region  Damian  was  taken 
to  lead  the  kind  of  life  he  professed  to  love.  Here 
were  hill,  forest,  and  clear  swift  river,  great  un- 
dulating plains,  the  pleasant  pasture-lands  of  the 
huanaco,  ostrich,  and  wild  horse;  and  beyond  all 
in  the  west  the  stupendous  mountain  range  of 
the  Cordilleras — a  realm  of  enchantment  and 
ever-changing  beauty.  Very  soon,  however,  when 
the  novelty  of  the  new  life  had  worn  off,  together 
with  the  exultation  he  had  experienced  at  his 
escape  from  cruel  death,  his  heart  began  to  be 
eaten  up  with  secret  grief,  and  he  pined  for  his 


104         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

own  people  again.  Escape  was  impossible:  to 
have  revealed  his  true  feelings  would  have  ex- 
posed him  to  instant  cruel  death.  To  take  kindly 
to  the  savage  way  of  life,  outwardly  at  least,  was 
now  his  only  course.  With  cheerful  countenance 
he  went  forth  on  long  hunting  expeditions  in  the 
depth  of  winter,  exposed  all  day  to  bitter  cold  and 
furious  storms  of  wind  and  sleet,  cursed  and 
beaten  for  his  awkwardness  by  his  fellow-hunts- 
men; at  night  stretching  his  aching  limbs  on  the 
wet  stony  ground,  with  the  rug  they  permitted 
him  to  wear  for  only  covering.  When  the  hunters 
were  unlucky  it  was  customary  to  slaughter  a 
horse  for  food.  The  wretched  animal  would  be 
first  drawn  up  by  its  hind  legs  and  suspended 
from  the  branches  of  a  great  tree,  so  that  all  the 
blood  might  be  caught,  for  this  is  the  chief  deli- 
cacy of  the  Patagonian  savage.  An  artery  would 
be  opened  in  the  neck  and  the  spouting  blood 
caught  in  large  earthen  vessels;  then,  when  the 
savages  gathered  round  to  the  feast,  poor  Damian 
would  be  with  them  to  drink  his  share  of  the  ab- 
horred liquid,  hot  from  the  heart  of  the  still  living 
brute.  In  autumn,  when  the  apples  were  fer- 
mented in  pits  dug  in  the  earth  and  lined  with 
horse  hides  to  prevent  the  juice  from  escaping,  he 
would  take  part,  as  became  a  true  savage,  in  the 
grand  annual  drinking  bouts.  The  women  would 
first  go  round  carefully  gathering  up  all  knives, 
spears,  bolas,  or  other  weapons  dangerous  in  the 
hands  of  drunken  men,  to  carry  them  away  into 


LIFE  IN  PATAGONIA  105 

the  forest,  where  they  would  conceal  themselves 
with  the  children.  Then  for  days  the  warriors 
would  give  themselves  up  to  the  joys  of  intoxica- 
tion; and  at  such  times  unhappy  Damian  would 
come  in  for  a  large  share  of  ridicule,  blows,  and 
execrations;  the  Indians  being  full  of  boisterous 
fun  or  else  truculent  in  their  cups,  and  loving 
above  all  things  to  have  a  Koko-huinche,  or 
''white  fool"  for  a  butt. 

At  length,  when  he  came  to  man's  estate,  was 
fluent  in  their  language,  and  outwardly  in  all 
things  like  a  savage,  a  wife  was  bestowed  on  him, 
and  she  bore  him  several  children.  Those  he  had 
first  known  as  grown  up  or  old  men  gradually  died 
off,  were  killed,  or  drifted  away;  children  who 
had  always  known  Damian  as  one  of  the  tribe 
grew  to  manhood,  and  it  was  forgotten  that  he 
had  ever  been  a  Christian  and  a  captive.  Yet 
still,  with  his  helpmate  by  his  side,  weaving  rugs 
and  raiment  for  him  or  ministering  to  his  wants— 
for  the  Indian  wife  is  always  industrious  and  the 
patient,  willing,  affectionate  slave  of  her  lord — 
and  with  all  his  young  barbarians  at  play  on  the 
grass  before  his  hut,  he  would  sit  in  the  waning 
sunlight  oppressed  with  sorrow,  dreaming  the  old 
dreams  he  could  not  banish  from  his  heart.  And 
at  last,  when  his  wife  began  to  grow  wrinkled  and 
dark-skinned,  as  a  middle-aged  Indian  mother  in- 
variably does,  and  when  his  children  were  becom- 
ing men,  the  gnawing  discontent  at  his  breast 
made  him  resolve  to  leave  the  tribe  and  the  life  he 


106         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

secretly  hated.  He  joined  a  hunting-party  going 
towards  the  Atlantic  coast,  and  after  traveling 
for  some  days  with  them  his  opportunity  came, 
when  he  secretly  left  them  and  made  his  way  alone 
to  the  Carmen. 

* '  And  there  he  is, ' '  concluded  Ventura,  when  he 
had  told  the  story,  with  undisguised  contempt  for 
Damian  in  his  tone,  "an  Indian  and  nothing  less! 
Does  he  imagine  he  can  ever  be  like  one  of  us 
after  living  that  life  for  thirty  years?  If  Marcos 
were  alive,  how  he  would  laugh  to  see  Damian 
back  again,  sitting  cross-legged  on  the  floor, 
solemn  as  a  cacique,  brown  as  old  leather,  and 
calling  himself  a  white  man!  Yet  here  he  says 
he  will  remain,  and  here  amongst  Christians  he 
will  die.  Fool,  why  did  he  not  escape  twenty 
years  ago,  or,  having  remained  so  long  in  the 
desert,  why  has  he  now  come  back  where  he  is  not 
wanted ! ' ' 

Ventura  was  very  unsympathetic,  and  appeared 
to  have  no  kindly  feelings  left  for  his  old  com- 
panion-in-arms, but  I  was  touched  with  the  story 
I  had  heard.  There  was  something  pathetic  in 
the  life  of  that  poor  returned  wanderer,  an  alien 
now  to  his  own  fellow-townsmen,  homeless  amidst 
the  pleasant  vineyards,  poplar  groves,  and  old 
stone  houses  where  he  had  first  seen  the  light; 
listening  to  the  bells  from  the  church  tower  as  he 
had  listened  to  them  in  childhood,  and  perhaps  for 
the  first  time  realizing  in  a  dull  vague  kind  of 
way  that  it  might  never  more  be  with  him  as  it 


DAMIAX  'S    WIFE 


LIFE  IN  PATAGONIA  107 

had  been  in  the  vanished  past.  Possibly  also,  the 
memory  of  his  savage  spouse  who  had  loved  him 
many  years  would  add  some  bitterness  to  his 
strange  isolated  life.  For,  far  away  in  their  old 
home,  she  would  still  wait  for  him,  vainly  hoping, 
fearing  much,  dim-eyed  with  sorrow  and  long 
watching,  yet  never  seeing  his  form  returning  to 
her  out  of  the  mysterious  haze  of  the  desert. 
Poor  Damian,  and  poor  wife ! 


CHAPTER  VHI 

SNOW,   AND   THE   QUALITY   OF 
WHITENESS 

IN  August,  the  April  of  the  Argentine  poets,  we 
had  some  piercingly  cold  weather,  followed  by 
a  fall  of  snow.  Heaven  be  praised  for  it!  for 
never  again,  perhaps,  shall  I  see  earth  transfig- 
ured by  the  breath  of  antarctic  winter.  I  had 
spent  the  night  in  the  village,  and  it  was  a  strange 
and  weirdly  beautiful  sight,  when,  on  rising  next 
morning,  I  beheld  roads,  housetops,  trees,  and  the 
adjacent  hills,  white  with  a  surpassing  unfamiliar 
whiteness.  The  morning  was  mild,  with  a  dull 
leaden  sky ;  and  suddenly,  as  I  stood  in  the  street, 
the  snow  began  to  fall  again,  and  continued  for 
about  an  hour.  Most  of  that  time  I  spent  standing 
motionless,  gazing  up  into  the  air,  peopled  with 
innumerable  large  slow-descending  flakes :  only 
those  of  my  English  readers  who,  like  Kingsley, 
have  longed  for  a  sight  of  tropical  vegetation  and 
scenery,  and  have  at  last  had  their  longing  grati- 
fied, can  appreciate  my  sensations  on  first  behold- 
ing snow. 

My  visit  to  Patagonia  so  far  had  been  rich  in 
experiences.    One  of  the  first,  just  before  touch- 

108 


SNOW,  AND  QUALITY  OF  WHITENESS    109 

ing  its  shores,  but  after  the  ship  had  struck  on 
the  hidden  rocks,  was  the  effect  of  whiteness  as 
seen  in  a  tumultuous  milky  sea;  and  now,  after 
several  months  there  came  this  snow-fall,  and  a 
vaster  and  stranger  whiteness.  My  uppermost 
feeling  at  the  time  was  one  of  delight  at  seeing 
what  I  had  been  hoping  for  months  to  see,  but  had 
now,  when  winter  was  so  nearly  over,  ceased  to 
hope  for.  This  pleasure  was  purely  intellectual; 
but  when  I  ask  myself  if  there  was  anything  be- 
sides, a  deeper,  undefinable  feeling,  I  can  only 
answer,  I  think  not :  my  first  experience  of  snow 
does  not  lead  me  to  believe  that  there  is  any 
instinctive  feeling  in  us  related  to  it;  that  the 
feeling  which  so  many,  perhaps  a  majority  of  per- 
sons, experience  on  seeing  the  earth  whitened  by 
the  breath  of  winter,  must  be  accounted  for  in 
some  other  way. 

In  Herman  Melville's  romance  of  Moby  Dick, 
or  The  Whale,  there  is  a  long  dissertation,  per- 
haps the  finest  thing  in  the  book,  on  whiteness  in 
nature,  and  its  effect  on  the  mind.  It  is  an  inter- 
esting and  somewhat  obscure  subject;  and,  as 
Melville  is  the  only  writer  I  know  who  has  dealt 
with  it,  and  something  remains  to  be  said,  I  may 
look  to  be  pardoned  for  dwelling  on  it  at  some 
length  in  this  place. 

Melville  recalls  the  fact  that  in  numberless  nat- 
ural objects  whiteness  enhances  beauty,  as  if  it 
imparted  some  special  virtue  of  its  own,  as  in 
marbles,  japonicas,  pearls;  that  the  quality  of 


110         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

whiteness  is  emblematic  of  whatever  we  regard  as 
high  and  most  worthy  of  reverence;  that  it  has 
for  us  innumerable  beautiful  and  kindly  associa- 
tions. "Yet,"  he  goes  on  to  say,  "for  all  these 
accumulated  associations  with  whatever  is  sweet, 
and  honorable,  and  sublime,  there  lurks  an  illusive 
something  in  the  innermost  idea  of  this  hue  which 
strikes  more  of  panic  to  the  soul  than  the  red- 
ness which  affrights  in  blood."  He  is  no  doubt 
right  that  there  is  a  mysterious  illusive  something 
affecting  us  in  the  thought  of  whiteness ;  but,  then, 
so  illusive  is  it,  and  in  most  cases  so  transient  in 
its  effect,  that  only  when  we  are  told  of  it  do  we 
look  for  and  recognize  its  existence  in  us.  And 
this  only  with  regard  to  certain  things,  a  distinc- 
tion which  Melville  failed  to  see,  this  being  his 
first  mistake  in  his  attempt  to  ' '  solve  the  incanta- 
tion of  whiteness."  His  second  and  greatest 
error  is  in  the  assumption  that  the  quality  of 
whiteness,  apart  from  the  object  it  is  associated 
with,  has  anything  extranatural  or  supernatural 
to  the  mind.  There  is  no  "  supernaturalism  in 
the  hue,"  no  " spectralness  over  the  fancy,"  in  the 
thought  of  the  whiteness  of  white  clouds;  of  the 
white  horses  of  the  sea;  of  white  sea-birds,  and 
white  water-fowl,  such  as  swans,  storks,  egrets, 
ibises,  and  many  others ;  nor  in  white  beasts,  not 
dangerous  to  us,  wild  or  domestic,  nor  in  white 
flowers.  These  may  bloom  in  such  profusion  as  to 
whiten  whole  fields,  as  with  snow,  and  their  white- 
ness yet  be  no  more  to  the  fancy  than  the  yellows, 


SNOW,  AND  QUALITY  OF  WHITENESS    111 

purples,  and  reds  of  other  kinds.  In  the  same 
way  the  whiteness  of  the  largest  masses  of  white 
clouds  has  no  more  of  supernaturalness  to  the 
mind  than  the  blueness  of  the  sky  and  the  green- 
ness of  vegetation.  Again,  on  still  hot  days  on  the 
pampas  the  level  earth  is  often  seen  glittering 
with  the  silver  whiteness  of  the  mirage ;  and  this 
is  also  a  common  natural  appearance  to  the  mind, 
like  the  whiteness  of  summer  clouds,  of  sea  foam, 
and  of  flowers. 

From  all  these  examples,  and  many  others 
might  be  added,  it  seems  evident  that  the  "illusive 
something,"  which  Melville  found  in  the  inner- 
most idea  of  this  hue — a  something  that  strikes 
more  of  panic  to  the  soul  than  the  redness  which 
affrights  in  blood — does  not  reside  in  the  quality 
of  whiteness  itself. 

After  making  this  initial  mistake,  he  proceeds 
to  name  all  those  natural  objects  which,  being 
white,  produce  in  us  the  various  sensations  he 
mentions,  mysterious  and  ghostly,  and  in  various 
ways  unpleasant  and  painful.  What  is  it,  he  asks, 
that  in  the  albino  so  peculiarly  repels  and  shocks 
the  eye,  as  that  sometimes  he  is  loathed  by  his 
own  kith  and  kin?  He  has  a  great  deal  to  say  of 
the  polar  bear,  and  the  white  shark  of  the  tropical 
seas,  and  concludes  that  it  is  their  whiteness  that 
makes  them  so  much  more  terrible  to  us  than 
other  savage  rapacious  creatures  that  are  dan- 
gerous to  man.  He  speaks  of  the  muffled  rolling 
of  a  milky  sea;  the  rustlings  of  the  festooned 


112         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

frost  of  mountains;  the  desolate  shif tings  of  the 
windrowed  snows  of  prairies.  Finally,  he  asks, 
whence,  in  peculiar  moods,  comes  that  gigantic 
phantom  over  the  soul  at  the  bare  mention  of  a 
White  Sea,  a  White  Squall,  White  Mountains, 
etc.,  etc. 

He  assumes  all  along  that  the  cause  of  the  feel- 
ing, however  it  may  differ  in  degree  and  other- 
wise, according  to  the  nature  and  magnitude  of 
the  subject,  is  one  and  the  same  in  all  cases,  that 
the  cause  is  in  the  whiteness,  and  not  in  the  object 
with  which  that  quality  is  associated. 

The  albino  case  need  not  detain  us  long;  and 
here  Melville's  seafaring  experiences  might  have 
suggested  a  better  explanation.  Sailors,  I  am  con- 
vinced from  observation,  are  very  primitive  in 
their  impulses,  and  hate,  and  often  unite  in  per- 
secuting, a  companion  who,  owing  to  failing 
strength  or  some  physical  defect,  is  not  able  to 
do  his  share  of  the  work.  Savages  and  semi-bar- 
barous people  often  cherish  a  strong  animosity 
against  a  constantly  ailing,  crippled,  or  otherwise 
defective  member  of  the  community :  and  albinism 
is  associated  with  weakness  of  vision,  and  other 
defects,  which  might  be  a  sufficient  cause  of  the 
aversion.  Even  among  the  highly  civilized  and 
humane,  the  sight  of  sickness  is  probably  always, 
in  some  measure,  repulsive  and  shocking,  espe- 
cially in  cases  in  which  the  skin  loses  its  natural 
color,  such  as  ana?mia,  consumption,  chlorosis,  and 
jaundice.  This  natural  and  universal  cause  of  dis- 


SNOW,  AND  QUALITY  OF  WHITENESS    113 

like  of  the  albino  would  be  strengthened  among 
pure  savages  by  the  superstitious  element — the 
belief  that  the  abnormal  paleness  of  the  individual 
was  supernatural,  that  want  of  color  signified 
absence  of  soul. 

As  to  the  white  shark  of  the  tropics,  the  sim- 
plest explanation  of  the  greater  terror  inspired  by 
this  creature  would  be  that,  being  white,  and 
therefore  conspicuous  above  all  other  dangerous 
creatures,  the  sight  would  be  more  attracted  to  it, 
its  image  would  become  more  fixed,  and  look 
larger  and  more  formidable  in  the  mind,  and  it 
would  be  more  often  thought  about  apprehen- 
sively, with  the  result  that  there  would  be  a  pre- 
disposition to  regard  it  with  a  fear  exceeding  that 
inspired  by  other  creatures  equally  or  even  more 
dangerous  to  human  life,  but  inconspicuously  col- 
ored, hence  not  so  vividly  seen,  and  creating  no 
such  distinct  and  persistent  mental  image.  Let  us 
consider  what  would  be  the  effect  of  the  appear- 
ance of  a  M'arrior,  habited  in  snowy  white,  or 
shining  gold,  or  vivid  scarlet,  or  flame-color, 
among  a  host  of  contending  men,  fighting  in  the 
old  fashion  with  sword  and  spear  and  battle-ax, 
all  clothed  and  armored  in  dull  neutral  or  somber 
colors.  Wherever  he  appeared  every  eye  would 
be  attracted  to  him;  his  movements  and  actions 
would  be  followed  with  intense  interest  by  all,  and 
by  his  antagonists  with  keen  apprehension ;  every 
time  he  parried  a  blow  aimed  at  his  life  he  would 
appear  invulnerable  to  the  lookers  on,  and  when- 


114         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

ever  an  enemy  went  down  before  him  it  would 
seem  that  a  supernatural  energy  nerved  his  arm, 
that  the  gods  were  fighting  on  his  side.  So  great 
is  the  effect  of  mere  conspicuousness !  Any  white 
savage  beast  would,  because  of  its  whiteness,  or 
conspicuousness,  seem  more  dangerous  than  an- 
other; and  a  Chillingham  bull,  no  doubt,  inspires 
more  fear  in  a  person  exposed  to  attack  than  a 
red  or  black  bull.  On  the  other  hand,  sheep  and 
lambs,  although  their  washed  fleeces  look  whiter 
than  snow,  are  regarded  as  indifferently  as  rab- 
bits and  fawns,  and  their  whiteness  is  nothing 
to  us. 

Something  more  remains  to  be  said  about  white- 
ness in  animals,  which  must  come  later.  It  will  be 
more  in  order  to  speak  first  of  the  whiteness  of 
snow,  and  the  whiteness  of  a  seething  ocean.  We 
are  all  capable  of  experiencing  something  of  that 
feeling,  so  powerfully  described  by  Melville,  at 
the  sight  of  the  muffled  rollings  of  a  milky  sea, 
and  white  mountains,  and  the  desolate  shiftings  of 
windrowed  snows  on  vast  stretches  of  level  earth. 
But  doubtless  in  many  the  feeling  would  be  slight ; 
there  is  an  "illusive  something"  in  us  when  we 
behold  the  earth  suddenly  whitened  with  snow; 
but  the  feeling  does  not  last,  and  is  speedily  for- 
gotten, or  else  set  down  as  an  effect  of  mere  nov- 
elty. In  Melville  it  was  very  strong;  it  stirred 
him  deeply,  and  caused  him  to  ponder  with  awe 
on  its  meaning;  and  the  conclusion  he  came  to 
was  that  it  is  an  instinct  in  us — an  instinct  simi- 


SNOW,  AND  QUALITY  OF  WHITENESS    115 

lar  to  that  of  the  horse  with  regard  to  the  smell 
of  some  animal  which  has  the  effect  of  violently 
agitating  it.  He  calls  it  an  inherited  experience. 
"Nor,  in  some  things,"  he  says,  "does  the  com- 
mon hereditary  experience  of  all  mankind  fail  to 
bear  witness  to  the  supernaturalism  of  this  hue. ' ' 
Finally,  the  feeling  speaks  to  us  of  appalling 
things  in  a  remote  past,  of  unimaginable  desola- 
tions, and  stupendous  calamities  overwhelming 
the  race  of  man. 

It  is  a  sublime  conception,  adequately  ex- 
pressed ;  and  as  we  read  the  imagination  pictures 
to  us  the  terrible  struggle  of  our  hardy  barbarous 
progenitors  against  the  bitter  killing  cold  of  the 
last  glacial  period;  but  the  picture  is  vague,  like 
striving  human  figures  in  a  landscape  half  oblit- 
erated by  wind-driven  snow.  It  was  a  struggle  that 
endured  for  long  ages,  until  the  gigantic  white 
phantom,  from  which  men  sought  everywhere  to 
fly,  came  to  be  a  phantom  of  the  mind,  a  spec- 
tralness  over  the  fancy,  and  instinctive  horror, 
which  the  surviving  remnant  transmitted  by  in- 
heritance down  to  our  own  distant  times. 

It  is  more  than  likely  that  cold  has  been  one  of 
the  oldest  and  deadliest  enemies  to  our  race; 
nevertheless,  I  reject  Melville's  explanation  in 
favor  of  another,  which  seems  more  simple  and 
satisfactory — to  its  author,  at  all  events :  which  is, 
that  that  mysterious  something  that  moves  us  at 
the  sight  of  snow  springs  from  the  animism  that 
exists  in  us,  and  our  animistic  way  of  regarding 


116          IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

all  exceptional  phenomena.  The  mysterious  feel- 
ings produced  in  us  by  the  sight  of  a  snow-whit- 
ened earth  are  not  singular,  but  are  similar  in 
character  to  the  feelings  caused  by  many  other 
phenomena,  and  they  may  be  experienced,  al- 
though in  a  very  slight  degree,  almost  any  day 
of  our  lives,  if  we  live  with  nature. 

It  must  be  explained  that  animism  is  not  used 
here  in  the  sense  that  Tyler  gives  it  in  his  Primi- 
tive Culture:  in  that  work  it  signifies  a  theory  of 
life,  a  philosophy  of  primitive  man,  which  has 
been  supplanted  among  civilized  people  by  a  more 
advanced  philosophy.  Animism  here  means  not  a 
doctrine  of  souls  that  survive  the  bodies  and  ob- 
jects they  inhabit,  but  the  mind's  projection  of 
itself  into  nature,  its  attribution  of  its  own  sen- 
tient life  and  intelligence  to  all  things — that 
primitive  universal  faculty  on  which  the  animistic 
philosophy  of  the  savage  is  founded.  When  our 
philosophers  tell  us  that  this  faculty  is  obsolete 
in  us,  that  it  is  effectually  killed  by  ratiocination, 
or  that  it  only  survives  for  a  period  in  our  chil- 
dren, I  believe  they  are  wrong,  a  fact  which  they 
could  find  out  for  themselves  if,  leaving  their 
books  and  theories,  they  would  take  a  solitary 
walk  on  a  moonlit  night  in  the  "Woods  of  Wester- 
main,"  or  any  other  woods,  since  all  are  en- 
chanted. 

Let  us  remember  that  our  poets,  who  speak 
not  scientifically  but  in  the  language  of  passion, 
when  they  say  that  the  sun  rejoices  in  the  sky  and 


SNOW,  AND  QUALITY  OF  WHITENESS    117 

laughs  at  the  storm;  that  the  earth  is  glad  with 
flowers  in  spring,  and  the  autumn  fields  happy; 
that  the  clouds  frown  and  weep,  and  the  wind 
sighs  and  "utters  something  mournful  on  its 
way" — that  in  all  this  they  speak  not  in  metaphor, 
as  we  are  taught  to  say,  but  that  in  moments  of 
excitement,  when  we  revert  to  primitive  condi- 
tions of  mind,  the  earth  and  all  nature  is  alive 
and  intelligent,  and  feels  as  we  feel.  When,  after 
a  spell  of  dull  weather,  the  sun  unexpectedly 
shines  out  warm  and  brilliant,  who  has  not  felt  in 
that  first  glad  instant  that  all  nature  shared  his 
conscious  gladness?  Or,  in  the  first  hours  of  a 
great  bereavement,  who  has  not  experienced  a 
feeling  of  wonder  and  even  resentment  at  the 
sight  of  blue  smiling  skies  and  a  sun-flushed 
earth? 

"We  have  all,"  says  Vignoli,  "however  unac- 
customed to  give  an  account  of  our  acts  and  func- 
tions, found  ourselves  in  circumstances  which  pro- 
duced the  momentary  personification  of  natural 
objects.  The  sight  of  some  extraordinary  phenom- 
enon produces  a  vague  sense  of  some  one  acting 
with  a  given  purpose."  Not  assuredly  of  "some 
one"  outside  of  and  above  the  natural  phenom- 
enon, but  in  and  one  with  it,  just  as  the  act  of  a 
man  proceeds  from  him,  and  is  the  man. 

It  is  doubtless  true  that  wTe  are  animistic  to 
this  extent  only  at  rare  moments,  and  in  excep- 
tional circumstances,  and  during  certain  aspects 
iDf  nature  that  recur  only  at  long  intervals.  And 


118         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

of  all  such  aspects  of  nature  and  extraordinary 
phenomena,  snow  is  perhaps  the  most  impressive, 
and  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  widely  known  on 
the  earth,  and  most  intimately  associated  in  the 
mind  with  the  yearly  suspension  of  nature's  be- 
neficent activity,  and  all  that  this  means  to  the 
human  family — the  failure  of  food  and  consequent 
want,  and  the  suffering  and  danger  from  intense 
cold.  This  traditional  knowledge  of  an  inclement 
period  in  nature  only  serves  to  intensify  the  ani- 
mism that  finds  a  given  purpose  in  all  natural  phe- 
nomena, and  sees  in  the  whiteness  of  earth  the 
sign  of  a  great  unwelcome  change.  Change  not 
death,  since  nature's  life  is  eternal;  but  its  sweet 
friendly  warmth  and  softness  have  died  out  of  it ; 
there  is  no  longer  any  recognition,  any  bond; 
and  if  we  were  to  fall  down  and  perish  by  the 
wayside,  there  would  be  no  compassion:  it  is  sit- 
ting apart  and  solitary,  cold  and  repelling,  its 
breath  suspended,  in  a  trance  of  grief  or  passion ; 
and  although  it  sees  us  it  is  as  though  it  saw  us 
not,  even  as  we  see  pebbles  and  withered  leaves 
on  the  ground,  when  some  great  sorrow  has  dazed 
us,  or  when  some  deadly  purpose  is  in  our  heart. 
Just  as  with  regard  to  snow  the  animistic  feel- 
ing is  strongest  in  those  who  inhabit  regions 
where  winter  is  severe,  and  who  annually  see  this 
change  in  nature,  so  the  "muffled  rollings  of  a 
milky  sea"  will  strike  more  of  panic  to  the  sailor's 
soul  than  to  that  of  the  landsman.  Melville  re- 
lates an  anecdote  of  an  old  sailor  who  swooned 


SNOW,  AND  QUALITY  OF  WHITENESS    119 

from  terror  at  the  sight  of  an  ocean  white  with 
the  foam  of  breakers  among  which  the  ship  was 
driven.  He  afterwards  declared  that  it  was  not 
the  thought  of  the  danger,  for  to  danger  he  was 
accustomed,  but  the  whiteness  of  the  sea  that 
overcame  him.  And  to  his  animistic  mind  that 
whiteness  was  nothing  but  the  sign  of  ocean's 
wrath — the  sight  of  its  tremendous  passion  and 
deadly  purpose  proved  too  appalling. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  conditions  of  the 
sailor's  life  tend  to  bring  out  and  strengthen  the 
latent  animism  that  is  in  all  of  us ;  the  very  ship 
he  navigates  is  to  his  mind  alive  and  intelligent, 
how  much  more  the  ocean,  which,  even  to  lands- 
men on  each  return  to  it  after  an  interval,  seems 
no  mere  expanse  of  water,  but  a  living  conscious 
thing.  It  was  only  my  strangeness  to  the  sea 
which  prevented  the  sight  of  its  whiteness  from 
affecting  me  profoundly :  animism  in  me  is  strong- 
est with  regard  to  terrestrial  phenomena,  with 
which  I  am  more  familiar. 

To  return,  before  concluding  this  chapter,  to 
the  subject  of  white  animals.  And  first  a  word  or 
two  concerning  the  great  polar  bear:  is  it  not 
probable  that  the  extreme  fear  it  inspires,  which 
is  said  by  those  who  have  encountered  this  animal 
to  exceed  greatly  that  which  is  experienced  at 
the  sight  of  other  savage  beasts  that  are  danger- 
ous to  man,  is  due  to  its  association  with  the 
death-like  repellent  whiteness  and  desolation  of 
polar  scenery? 


120         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

With  regard  to  abnormal  whiteness  in  animals 
that  are  familiar  to  us,  the  sight  always  affects  us 
strangely,  even  in  so  innocent  and  insignificant  a 
creature  as  a  starling,  or  blackbird,  or  lapwing. 
The  rarity,  conspicuousness,  and  abnormality  in 
color  of  the  object  are  scarcely  enough  to  account 
for  the  intensity  of  the  interest  excited.  Among 
savages  the  distinguishing  whiteness  is  sometimes 
regarded  as  supernatural:  and  this  fact  inclines 
me  to  believe  that,  just  as  any  extraordinary  phe- 
nomenon produces  a  vague  idea  of  some  one  act- 
ing with  a  given  purpose,  so  in  the  case  of  the 
white  animal,  its  whiteness  has  not  come  by  acci- 
dent and  chance,  but  is  the  result  of  the  creature 's 
volition  and  the  outward  sign  of  some  excellence 
of  the  intelligent  soul  distinguishing  it  from  its 
fellows.  In  Patagonia  I  heard  of  a  case  bearing 
on  this  point.  On  the  plain  some  thirty  miles  east 
of  Salinas  Grandes,  in  a  small  band  of  ostriches 
there  appeared  one  pure  white  individual.  Some 
of  the  Indians,  when  out  hunting,  attempted  its 
capture,  but  they  soon  ceased  to  chase  it,  and  it 
was  called  thereafter  the  god  of  the  ostriches,  and 
it  was  said  among  them  that  some  great  disaster, 
perhaps  death,  would  overtake  any  person  who 
should  do  it  harm. 


CHAPTER  IX 
IDLE  DAYS 

"DEFORE  the  snow,  which  has  given  rise  to  so 
U  long  a  digression,  had  quite  ceased  falling  the 
blue  sky  was  smiling  again,  and  I  set  forth  on  my 
muddy  walk  home.  Under  the  brilliant  sun  the 
white  mantle  very  soon  began  to  exhibit  broad 
black  lines  and  rents,  and  in  a  brief  space  of  time 
the  earth  had  recovered  its  wonted  appearance 
— the  cheerful  greenish-bluish-gray,  which  is  Na- 
ture 's  livery  at  all  times  in  this  part  of  Patagonia ; 
while  from  the  dripping  thorn  bushes  the  birds 
resumed  their  singing. 

If  the  birds  of  this  region  do  not  excel  those  of 
other  lands  in  sweetness,  compass,  and  variety 
(and  I  am  not  sure  that  they  do  not)  for  constancy 
in  singing  they  indubitably  carry  the  palm.  In 
spring  and  early  summer  their  notes  are  inces- 
sant ;  and  the  choir  is  then  led  by  that  incompara- 
ble melodist,  the  white-banded  mocking-bird,  a 
summer  visitor.  Even  in  the  coldest  months  of 
winter,  June  and  July,  when  the  sun  shines,  the 
hoarse  crooning  of  the  spotted  Columba,  resem- 
bling that  of  the  wood-pigeon  of  Europe,  and  the 
softer,  more  sigh-like  lamentations  of  the  Zenaida 

121 


122         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

maculata,  so  replete  with  wild  pathos,  are  heard 
from  the  leafless  willows  fringing  the  river. 
Meanwhile,  in  the  bosky  uplands,  one  hears  the 
songs  of  many  passerine  species;  and  always 
amongst  them,  with  lively  hurried  notes,  the  black- 
headed  Magellanic  siskin.  The  scarlet-breasted 
or  military  starling  sings  on  the  coldest  days  and 
during  the  most  boisterous  weather:  nor  can  the 
rainiest  sky  cheat  the  gray  finches,  Diuca  minor, 
of  their  morning  and  evening  hymns,  sung  by 
many  individuals  in  joyous  concert.  The  common 
mocking-bird  is  still  more  indefatigable,  and 
sheltering  himself  from  the  cold  blast  continues 
till  after  dark  warbling  out  snatches  of  song  from 
his  inexhaustible  repertory;  his  own  music  being 
apparently  necessary  as  food  and  air  to  his  exist- 
ence. 

Warm  lovely  days  succeeded  the  snowfall.  Ris- 
ing each  morning  I  could  reverently  exclaim  with 
the  human  singer, 

O  gift  of  God!  O  perfect  day! 
Whereon  should  no  man  work  but  play. 

Days  windless  and  serene  to  their  very  end,  bright 
with  a  cloudless  sky,  and  sunshine  sweet  and 
pleasant  to  behold,  making  the  gray  solitudes 
smile  as  if  conscious  of  the  heavenly  influence.  It 
is  a  common  saying  in  this  country  that  "once 
in  a  hundred  years,  a  man  dies  in  Patagonia." 
I  do  not  think  any  other  region  of  the  globe  can 


IDLE  DAYS  123 

boast  of  a  saying  to  equal  that;  though  it  has 
been  ill-naturedly  suggested  that  the  proverb 
might  owe  its  origin  to  the  fact  that  most  people 
in  Patagonia  meet  with  some  violent  end.  I  do 
not  myself  believe  there  is  any  climate  in  the 
world  to  compare  with  the  winter  of  the  east  coast 
of  Patagonia;  and  although  its  summer  might 
seem  disagreeable  to  some  persons  on  account  of 
the  violent  winds  that  prevail  at  that  season,  the 
atmosphere  at  all  times  is  so  dry  and  pure  as  to 
make  pulmonary  complaints  unknown.  A  wealthy 
tradesman  of  the  town  told  me  that  from  boyhood 
he  suffered  from  weak  lungs  and  asthma;  in 
search  of  health  he  left  his  country,  Spain,  and 
settled  in  Buenos  Ayres,  where  he  formed  ties 
and  entered  into  business.  But  his  old  enemy 
found  him  there;  his  asthma  became  worse  and 
worse,  and  at  last,  on  his  doctor's  recommenda- 
tion, he  went  on  a  visit  to  Patagonia,  where  in  a 
short  time  he  was  restored  to  complete  health — 
such  health  as  he  had  never  previously  known. 
He  went  back  rejoicing  to  Buenos  Ayres,  only  to 
fall  ill  again  and  to  find  his  life  growing  a  burden 
to  him.  Finally,  in  desperation,  he  sold  his  busi- 
ness and  went  back  to  the  only  country  where 
existence  was  possible ;  and  when  I  knew  him  he 
had  been  permanently  settled  there  for  about 
fourteen  years,  during  which  time  he  had  enjoyed 
the  most  perfect  health. 

But  he  was  not  happy.    He  confided  to  me  that 
he  had  purchased  health  at  a  very  heavy  cost, 


124         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

since  he  found  it  impossible  ever  to  accommodate 
himself  to  such  a  rude  existence;  that  he  was  es- 
sentially a  child  of  civilization,  a  man  of  the  pave- 
ment, whose  pleasure  was  in  society,  in  newspa- 
pers, the  play,  and  in  the  cafe  where  one  meets 
one's  friends  of  an  evening  and  has  a  pleasant 
game  of  dominoes.  As  these  things  which  he 
valued  were  merely  dust  and  ashes  to  me,  I  did 
not  sympathize  deeply  with  his  discontent,  nor 
consider  that  it  mattered  much  which  portion  of 
the  globe  he  made  choice  of  for  a  residence.  But 
the  facts  of  his  case  interested  me ;  and  if  I  should 
have  a  reader  who  has  other  ideals,  who  has  felt 
the  mystery  and  glory  of  life  overcoming  his  soul 
with  wonder  and  desire,  and  who  bears  in  his 
system  the  canker  of  consumption  which  threatens 
to  darken  the  vision  prematurely — to  such  a  one 
I  would  say,  TRY  PATAGONIA.  It  is  far  to  travel, 
and  in  place  of  the  smoothness  of  Madeira  there 
would  be  roughness;  but  how  far  men  go,  into 
what  rough  places,  in  search  of  rubies  and  ingots 
of  gold;  and  life  is  more  than  these. 

During  this  beautiful  weather  merely  to  exist 
has  seemed  to  me  a  sufficient  pleasure :  sometimes 
rowing  on  the  river,  which  is  here  about  nine 
hundred  feet  wide — going  up  to  the  town  with 
the  tide  and  returning  with  the  current  when 
only  a  slight  exertion  suffices  to  keep  the  boat 
swiftly  gliding  over  the  pure  green  water.  At 
other  times  I  amuse  myself  by  seeking  for  the 


IDLE  DAYS  125 

resinous  gum,  known  here  by  its  Indian  name 
tnaken.  The  scraggy  wide-spreading  bush,  a  kind 
of  juniper,  it  is  found  on,  repays  me  with  many  a 
scratch  and  rent  for  all  the  amber  tears  I  steal. 
The  gum  is  found  in  little  lumps  on  the  under  side 
of  the  lower  branches,  and  is,  when  fresh,  semi- 
transparent  and  sticky  as  bird-lime.  To  fit  it  for 
use  the  natives  make  it  into  pellets,  and  hold  it 
on  the  point  of  a  stick  over  a  basin  of  cold  water ; 
a  coal  of  fire  is  then  approached  to  it,  causing 
it  to  melt  and  trickle  down  by  drops  into  the 
basin.  The  drops,  hardened  by  the  process,  are 
then  kneaded  with  the  fingers,  cold  water  being 
added  occasionally,  till  the  gum  becomes  thick  and 
opaque  like  putty.  To  chew  it  properly  requires 
a  great  deal  of  practice,  and  when  this  indigenous 
art  has  been  acquired  a  small  ball  of  maken  may 
be  kept  in  the  mouth  two  or  three  hours  every 
day,  and  used  for  a  week  or  longer  without  losing 
its  agreeable  resinous  flavor  or  diminishing  in 
bulk,  so  firmly  does  it  hold  together.  The  maken- 
chewer,  on  taking  the  ball  or  quid  from  his  mouth, 
washes  it  and  puts  it  by  for  future  use,  just  as 
one  does  with  a  tooth-brush.  Chewing  grim  is  not 
merely  an  idle  habit,  and  the  least  that  can  be  said 
in  its  favor  is  that  it  allays  the  desire  for  excessive 
smoking — no  small  advantage  to  the  idle  dwellers, 
white  or  red,  in  this  desert  land ;  it  also  preserves 
the  teeth  by  keeping  them  free  from  extraneous 
matter,  and  gives  them  such  a  pearly  luster  as  I 
have  never  seen  outside  of  this  region. 


126         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

My  own  attempts  at  chewing  maken  have,  so 
far,  proved  signal  failures.  Somehow  the  gum 
invariably  spreads  itself  in  a  thin  coat  over  the 
interior  of  my  mouth,  covering  the  palate  like  a 
sticking-plaster  and  enclosing  the  teeth  in  a  stub- 
born rubber  case.  Nothing  will  serve  to  remove 
it  when  it  comes  to  this  pass  but  raw  suet,  vigor- 
ously chewed  for  half  an  hour,  with  occasional 
sips  of  cold  water  to  harden  the  delightful  mix- 
ture and  induce  it  to  come  away.  The  culmina- 
tion of  the  mess  is  when  the  gum  spreads  over 
the  lips  and  becomes  entangled  in  the  hairs  that 
overshadow  them ;  and  when  the  closed  mouth  has 
to  be  carefully  opened  with  the  fingers,  until  these 
also  become  sticky  and  hold  together  firmly  as  if 
united  by  a  membrane.  All  this  comes  about 
through  the  neglect  of  a  simple  precaution,  and 
never  happens  to  the  accomplished  masticator, 
who  is  to  the  manner  born.  When  the  gum  is 
still  fresh  occasionally  it  loses  the  quality  of  stiff- 
ness artificially  imparted  to  it,  and  suddenly,  with- 
out rhyme  or  reason,  retransforms  itself  into  the 
raw  material  as  it  came  from  the  tree.  The  adept, 
knowing  by  certain  indications  when  this  is  about 
to  happen,  takes  a  mouthful  of  cold  water  at  the 
critical  moment,  and  so  averts  a  result  so  dis- 
couraging to  the  novice.  Maken-chewing  is  a 
habit  common  to  everybody  throughout  the  entire 
territory  of  Patagonia,  and  for  this  reason  I  have 
described  the  delightful  practice  at  some  length. 

When  disinclined  for  gum-chewing  I  ramble  for 


IDLE  DAYS  127 

hours  through  the  bushes  to  listen  to  the  birds, 
learning  their  language  and  making  myself  fa- 
miliar with  their  habits.  How  coy  are  some  spe- 
cies whose  instincts  ever  impel  them  to  conceal- 
ment! What  vigilance,  keen  and  never  relaxed, 
is  theirs !  Difficult  even  to  catch  a  passing  glimpse 
of  them  as  they  skulk  from  notice,  how  much  more 
so  to  observe  them  disporting  themselves  without 
fear  or  restraint,  unconscious  of  any  intrusive 
presence !  Yet  such  observation  only  satisfies  the 
naturalist,  and  when  obtained  it  amply  repays  the 
silence,  the  watching,  and  the  waiting  it  costs. 
In  some  cases  the  opportunities  are  so  rare  that 
whilst  they  are  being  sought,  and  without  ever 
actually  occurring,  the  observer  day  by  day  grows 
more  familiar  with  the  manners  of  the  wild  crea- 
tures that  still  succeed  in  eluding  his  sight. 

Now  the  little  cock  (Ehinocrypa  lanceolata),  an 
amusing  bird  that  lives  on  the  ground,  carries  its 
tail  erect  and  looks  wonderfully  like  a  very  small 
bantam,  has  spied  me,  and,  full  of  alarm,  utters 
his  loud  chirrup  from  an  adjacent  bush.  Gently  I 
steal  towards  him,  careful  to  tread  on  the  sand, 
then  peer  cautiously  into  the  foliage.  For  a  few 
moments  he  scolds  me  with  loud,  emphatic  tones," 
and  then  is  silent.  Fancying  him  still  in  the 
same  place,  I  walk  about  the  bush  many  times, 
striving  to  catch  sight  of  him.  Suddenly  the  loud 
chirrup  is  resumed  in  a  bush  a  stone 's-throw 
away;  and  soon,  getting  tired  of  this  game  of 
hide-and-seek,  in  which  the  bird  has  all  the  fun 


128         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

and  I  all  the  seeking,  I  give  it  up  and  ramble  on. 
Then,  perhaps,  the  measured,  deep,  percussive 
tones  of  the  subterranean  Ctenomys,  well  named 
oculto  in  the  vernacular,  resound  within  a  dozen 
yards  of  my  feet.  So  near  and  loud  do  they  sound, 
I  am  convinced  the  shy  little  rodent  has  ventured 
for  a  moment  to  visit  the  sunshine.  I  might  pos- 
sibly even  catch  a  momentary  glimpse  of  him, 
sitting,  trembling  at  the  slightest  sound,  turning 
his  restless  bright  black  eyes  this  way  and  that  to 
make  sure  that  no  insidious  foe  is  lurking  near. 
For  while  the  mole's  eyes  have  dwindled  to  mere 
specks,  a  dark  subterranean  life  has  had  a  con- 
trary effect  on  the  oculto' s  orbs,  and  made  them 
large,  although  not  so  large  as  in  some  cave- 
rodents.  On  tiptoe,  scarcely  breathing,  I  ap- 
proach the  intervening  bush  and  peep  round  it, 
only  to  find  that  he  has  already  vanished!  A 
hillock  of  damp,  fresh  sand,  bearing  the  impress 
of  a  tail  and  a  pair  of  little  feet,  show  that  he 
has  been  busy  there,  and  had  sat  only  a  moment 
ago  swelling  the  silky  fur  of  his  bosom  with  those 
deep,  mysterious  sounds.  Cautiously,  silently,  I 
had  approached  him,  but  the  subtle  fox  and  the 
velvet-footed  cat  would  have  drawn  near  with 
still  greater  silence  and  caution,  yet  he  would 
have  baffled  them  both.  Of  all  shy  mammals  he  is 
the  shyest ;  in  him  fear  is  never  overcome  by  curi- 
osity, and  days,  even  weeks,  may  now  elapse  be- 
fore I  come  so  near  seeing  the  Ctenomys  magel- 
lanica  again. 


\ 


CTEXOMYS    MAGELLANICA 


IDLE  DAYS  129 

It  is  near  sunset,  and,  hark!  as  I  ramble  on  I 
hear  in  the  low  scrub  before  me  the  crested  tina- 
mous  (Calodromas  elegans),  the  wild  fowl  of  this 
region,  and  in  size  like  the  English  pheasant,  just 
beginning  their  evening  call.  It  is  a  long,  sweetly 
modulated  note,  somewhat  flute-like,  and  sounding 
clear  and  far  in  the  quiet  evening  air.  The  covey 
is  a  large  one,  I  conjecture,  for  many  voices  are 
joined  in  the  concert.  I  mark  the  spot  and  walk 
on;  but  at  my  approach,  however  quiet  and 
masked  with  bushes  it  may  be,  one  by  one  the  shy 
vocalists  drop  their  parts.  The  last  to  cease  re- 
peats his  note  half  a  dozen  times,  then  the  con- 
tagion reaches  him  and  he  too  becomes  silent.  I 
whistle  and  he  answers;  for  a  few  minutes  we 
keep  up  the  duet,  then,  aware  of  the  deception,  he 
is  silent  again.  I  resume  my  walk  and  pass  and 
repass  fifty  times  through  the  scattered  scrub, 
knowing  all  the  time  that  I  am  walking  about 
amongst  the  birds,  as  they  sit  turning  their  fur- 
tive eyes  to  watch  my  movements,  yet  concealed 
from  me  by  that  wonderful  adaptive  resemblance 
in  the  color  of  their  plumage  to  the  sear  grass 
and  foliage  around  them,  and  by  that  correlated 
instinct  which  bids  them  sit  still  in  their  places. 
I  find  many  evidences  of  their  presence — prettily 
mottled  feathers  dropped  when  they  preened  their 
wings,  also  a  dozen  or  twenty  neat  circular  hol- 
lows scooped  in  the  sand  in  which  they  recently 
dusted  themselves.  There  are  also  little  chains  of 
footprints  running  from  one  hollow  to  the  other; 


130         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

for  these  pulverizing  pits  serve  the  same  birds 
every  day,  and,  there  being  more  birds  in  the 
covey  than  there  are  pits,  the  bird  that  does  not 
quickly  secure  a  place  doubtless  runs  from  pit  to 
pit  in  search  of  one  unoccupied.  Doubtless  there 
are  many  pretty  quarrels  too;  and  the  older, 
stronger  bird,  regular  in  the  observance  of  this 
cleanly  luxurious  habit,  must,  per  fas  et  nefas,  find 
accommodation  somewhere. 

I  leave  the  favored  haunt,  but  when  hardly  a 
hundred  yards  away  the  birds  resume  their  call 
in  the  precise  spot  I  have  just  quitted;  first  one 
and  then  two  are  heard,  then  twenty  voices  join 
in  the  pleasing  concert.  Already  fear,  and  emo- 
tion strong  but  transitory  in  all  wild  creatures, 
has  passed  from  them,  and  they  are  free  and 
happy  as  if  my  wandering  shadow  had  never 
fallen  across  them. 

Twilight  comes  and  brings  an  end  to  these  use- 
less researches;  useless,  I  say,  and  take  great 
delight  in  saying  it,  for  if  there  is  anything  one 
feels  inclined  to  abhor  in  this  placid  land,  it  is  the 
doctrine  that  all  our  investigations  into  nature 
are  for  some  benefit,  present  or  future,  to  the 
human  race. 

Night  also  brings  supper,  welcome  to  the  hun- 
gry man,  and  hours  of  basking  in  the  genial  light 
and  warmth  of  a  wood  fire,  I  on  one  side,  and  my 
bachelor  host  on  the  other.  The  smoke  curls  up 
from  our  silent  lips,  whilst  idle  reveries  possess 
our  minds — fit  termination  of  a  day  spent  as  we 


CALODROMAS    ELEGAXS 


DOLICHOTIS    PATAGONICA 


IDLE  DAYS  131 

have  spent  it :  for  my  host  is  also  an  idler,  only  a 
more  accomplished  one  than  I  can  ever  hope  to  be. 

We  read  little;  my  companion  has  never  learnt 
letters,  and  I,  less  fortunate  in  that  respect,  hav- 
ing only  been  able  to  discover  one  book  in  the 
house,  a  Spanish  Libro  de  Misa,  beautifully 
printed  in  red  and  black  letters,  and  bound  in 
scarlet  morocco.  I  take  this  book  and  read,  until 
he,  tired  of  listening  to  prayers,  however  beauti- 
ful, challenges  me  to  a  game  of  cards.  For  some 
time  we  could  not  hit  on  anything  to  play  for, 
cigarettes  being  common  property,  but  at  length 
we  thought  of  stories,  the  loser  of  most  games 
during  the  evening  to  tell  the  other  a  story,  as  a 
mild  soporific,  after  retiring.  My  host  invariably 
won,  which  was  not  very  strange,  for  he  had  been 
a  professional  gambler  most  of  his  days,  and 
could  deal  himself  the  killing  cards  every  time  he 
shuffled.  More  than  once  I  caught  him  in  the  very 
act,  for  he  despised  his  antagonist  and  was  care- 
less, and  lectured  him  on  the  immorality  of  cheat- 
ing at  cards,  even  when  we  were  only  playing  for 
love,  or  for  something  next  door  to  it.  My  stric- 
tures amused  his  Patagonian  mind  very  much ;  he 
explained  that  what  I  called  cheating  was  only  a 
superior  kind  of  skill  acquired  by  much  study  and 
long  practice ;  so  it  happened  that  every  night  I 
was  compelled  to  draw  on  my  memory  or  inven- 
tion for  stories  to  pay  my  losses. 

Only  at  night  one  feels  the  winter  here,  but  in 
September  one  knows  that  it  has  gone,  though 


132 

summer  birds  have  not  yet  returned,  nor  the  for- 
est of  dwarf  mimosas  burst  into  brilliant  yellow 
bloom.  Through  all  seasons  the  general  aspect 
of  nature  remains  the  same,  owing  to  the  gray 
undeciduous  foliage  of  the  tree  and  shrub  vegeta- 
tion covering  the  country. 

As  spring  advances  each  day  dawns  apparently 
more  brilliantly  beautiful  than  the  preceding  one, 
and  after  breakfast  I  roam  forth,  unencumbered 
with  gun,  in  search  of  recreation. 

Hard  by  my  residence  there  is  a  hill  called  the 
"Parrots'  Cliff,"  where  the  swift  current  of  the 
river,  altering  its  course,  has  eaten  into  the  shore 
till  a  sheer  smooth  precipice  over  a  hundred  feet 
high  has  been  formed.  In  ancient  times  the  sum- 
mit must  have  been  the  site  of  an  Indian  village, 
for  I  am  continually  picking  up  arrow-heads  here ; 
at  present  the  face  of  the  cliff  is  inhabited  by  a 
flock  of  screaming  Patagonian  parrots,  that  have 
their  ancestral  breeding-holes  in  the  soft  rock.  It 
is  also  haunted  by  a  flock  of  pigeons  that  have 
taken  to  a  feral  life,  by  one  pair  of  little  hawks 
(Falco  sparverius),  and  a  colony  of  purple  mar- 
tins; only  these  last  have  not  yet  returned  from 
their  equatorial  wanderings.  Quiet  reigns  along 
the  precipice  when  I  reach  it,  for  the  vociferous 
parrots  are  away  feeding.  I  lie  down  on  my 
breast  and  peer  over  the  edge ;  far,  far  beneath  me 
a  number  of  coots  are  peacefully  disporting  them- 
selves in  the  water.  I  take  a  stone  the  bigness  of 
my  hand,  and,  poising  it  over  the  perilous  rim, 


IDLE  DAYS  133 

drop  it  upon  them:  down,  down,  down  it  drops; 
oh,  simple,  unsuspecting  coots,  beware!  Splash 
it  falls  in  the  middle  of  the  flock,  sending  up  a 
column  of  water  ten  feet  high,  and  then  what  a 
panic  seizes  on  the  birds !  They  tumble  over  as  if 
shot,  dive  down  incontinently,  then  reappearing, 
pause  not  to  look  about  them,  but  spring  away 
with  all  that  marvelous  flutter  and  splutter  of 
which  coots  alone  are  capable;  the  wings  beating 
rapidly,  the  long  legs  and  lobed  feet  sprawling 
behind  or  striking  the  surface,  away  they  scud, 
flying  and  tumbling  over  the  water,  spreading 
needless  alarm  through  flocks  of  pin-tails,  shrill- 
voiced  widgeons,  and  stately  black-necked  swans, 
but  never  pausing  until  the  opposite  shore  of  the 
river  is  reached. 

Pleased  with  the  success  of  my  experiment,  I 
quit  the  precipice,  to  the  great  relief  of  the  blue 
pigeons  and  of  the  little  hawks ;  these  last  having 
viewed  my  proceedings  with  great  jealousy,  for 
they  have  already  taken  possession  of  a  hole  in 
the  rock  with  a  view  to  nidification. 

Further  on  in  my  rambles  I  discover  a  nest  of 
the  large  black  leaf -cutting  ant  (CEcodoma)  found 
over  the  entire  South  American  continent — and  a 
leading  member  of  that  social  tribe  of  insects  of 
which  it  has  been  said  that  they  rank  intellectually 
next  to  ourselves.  Certainly  this  ant,  in  its  ac- 
tions, simulates  man's  intellect  very  closely,  and 
not  in  the  unpleasant  manner  of  species  having 
warrior  castes  and  slaves.  The  leaf-cutter  is 


134         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

exclusively  agricultural  in  its  habits,  and  con- 
structs subterranean  galleries,  in  which  it  stores 
fresh  leaves  in  amazing  quantities.  The  leaves 
are  not  eaten,  but  are  cut  up  into  small  pieces  and 
arranged  in  beds:  these  beds  quickly  become 
frosted  over  with  a  growth  of  minute  fungus ;  this 
the  ant  industriously  gathers  and  stores  for  use, 
and  when  the  artificial  bed  is  exhausted  the  with- 
ered leaves  are  carried  out  to  make  room  for  a 
layer  of  fresh  ones.  Thus  the  GEcodoma  literally 
grows  its  own  food,  and  in  this  respect  appears  to 
have  reached  a  stage  beyond  the  most  highly  de- 
veloped ant  communities  hitherto  described.  An- 
other interesting  fact  is  that,  although  the  leaf- 
cutters  have  a  peaceful  disposition,  never  show- 
ing resentment  except  when  gratuitously  inter- 
fered with,  they  are  just  as  courageous  as  any 
purely  predatory  species,  only  their  angry  emo- 
tions and  warlike  qualities  always  appear  to  be 
dominated  by  reason  and  the  public  good.  Occa- 
sionally a  community  of  leaf -cutters  goes  to  war 
with  a  neighboring  colony  of  ants  of  some  other 
species;  in  this,  as  in  everything  else,  they  seem 
to  act  with  a  definite  purpose  and  great  delibera- 
tion. Wars  are  infrequent,  but  in  all  those  I  have 
witnessed — and  I  have  known  this  species  from 
childhood — the  fate  of  the  nation  is  decided  in 
one  great  pitched  battle.  A  spacious  bare  level 
spot  of  ground  is  chosen,  where  the  contending 
armies  meet,  the  fight  raging  for  several  hours 
at  a  stretch,  to  be  renewed  on  several  consecutive 


IDLE  DAYS  135 

days.  The  combatants,  equally  sprinkled  over  a 
wide  area,  are  seen  engaged  in  single  combat  or  in 
small  groups,  while  others,  non-fighters,  run 
briskly  about  removing  the  dead  and  disabled 
warriors  from  the  field  of  battle. 

Perhaps  some  reader,  who  has  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  nature  in  a  London  square,  will 
smile  at  my  wonderful  ant  story.  Well,  I  have 
smiled  too,  and  cried  a  little,  perhaps,  when,  wit- 
nessing one  of  these  "decisive  battles  of  the 
world, ' '  I  have  thought  that  the  stable  civilization 
of  the  CEcodoma  ants  will  probably  continue  to 
flourish  on  the  earth  when  our  feverish  dream  of 
progress  has  ceased  to  vex  it.  Does  that  notion 
seem  very  fantastical  ?  Might  not  such  a  thought 
have  crossed  the  mind  of  some  priestly  Peruvian, 
idly  watching  the  labors  of  a  colony  of  leaf -cutters 
— a  thousand  years  ago,  let  us  say,  before  the 
canker  had  entered  into  his  system  to  make  it, 
long  ere  the  Spaniard  came,  ripe  for  death?  His- 
tory preserves  one  brief  fragment  which  goes  to 
show  that  the  Incas  themselves  were  not  alto- 
gether enslaved  by  the  sublime  traditions  they 
taught  the  vulgar;  that  they  also  possessed,  like 
philosophic  moderns,  some  conception  of  that  im- 
placable power  of  nature  which  orders  all  things, 
and  is  above  Viracocha  and  Pachacamac  and  the 
majestic  gods  that  rode  the  whirlwind  and  tem- 
pest, and  had  their  thrones  on  the  everlasting 
peaks  of  the  Andes.  Five  or  six  centuries  have 
probably  made  little  change  in  the  economy  of  the 


136         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

(Ecodoma,  but  the  splendid  civilization  of  the  chil- 
dren of  the  sun,  albeit  it  bore  on  the  face  of  it  the 
impress  of  unchangeableness  and  needless  dura- 
tion, has  vanished  utterly  from  the  earth. 

To  return  from  this  digression.  The  nest  I 
have  discovered  is  more  populous  than  London, 
and  there  are  several  roads  diverging  from  it, 
each  one  four  or  five  inches  wide,  and  winding 
away  hundreds  of  yards  through  the  bushes. 
Never  was  any  thoroughfare  in  a  great  city  fuller 
of  busy  hurrying  people  than  one  of  these  roads. 
Sitting  beside  one,  just  where  it  wound  over  the 
soft  yellow  sand,  I  grew  tired  of  watching  the 
endless  procession  of  little  toilers,  each  one  carry- 
ing a  leaf  in  his  jaws ;  and  very  soon  there  came 
into  my  ear  a  whisper  from  somebody — 

Who  finds  some  mischief  still 
For  idle  hands  to  do. 

It  is  always  pleasant  to  have  even  a  hypothet- 
ical somebody  on  whom  to  shuffle  the  responsibil- 
ity of  our  evil  actions.  Warning  my  conscience 
that  I  am  only  going  to  try  a  scientific  experiment, 
one  not  nearly  so  cruel  as  many  in  which  the  pious 
Spallanzani  took  great  delight,  I  scoop  a  deep  pit 
in  the  sand;  and  the  ants,  keeping  on  their  way 
with  their  usual  blind,  stupid  sagacity,  tumble 
pell-mell  over  each  other  into  it.  On,  on  they 
come,  in  scores  and  in  hundreds,  like  an  endless 
flock  of  sheep  jumping  down  a  pit  into  which  tk» 


IDLE  DAYS  137 

crazy  bell-wether  has  led  the  way:  soon  the  hun- 
dreds have  swelled  to  thousands,  and  the  yawning 
gulf  begins  to  fill  with  an  inky  mass  of  wriggling, 
biting,  struggling  ants.  Every  falling  leaf -cutter 
carries  down  a  few  grains  of  treacherous  sand 
with  it,  making  the  descent  easier,  and  soon  the  pit 
is  full  to  overflowing.  In  five  minutes  more  they 
will  all  be  out  again  at  their  accustomed  labors, 
just  a  little  sore  about  the  legs,  perhaps,  where 
they  have  bitten  one  another,  but  no  worse  for 
their  tumble,  and  all  that  will  remain  of  the  dread- 
ful cavern  will  be  a  slight  depression  in  the  soil. 
Satisfied  with  the  result,  I  resume  my  solitary 
ramble,  and  by-and-by  coming  upon  a  fine  Escan- 
dalosa  bush  I  resolve  to  add  incendiarism  to  my 
list  of  misdeeds.  It  might  appear  strange  that  a 
bush  should  be  called  Escandalosa,  which  means 
simply  Scandalous,  or,  to  prevent  mistakes,  which 
simply  means  Scandalous ;  but  this  is  one  of  those 
quaint  names  the  Argentine  peasants  have  be- 
stowed on  some  of  their  curious  plants — dry  love, 
the  devil's  snuff-box,  bashful  weed,  and  many 
others.  The  Escandalosa  is  a  wide-spreading 
shrub,  three  to  five  feet  high,  thickly  clothed  with 
prickly  leaves,  and  covered  all  the  year  round 
with  large  pale-yellow  immortal  flowers;  and  the 
curious  thing  about  the  plant  is  that  when  touched 
with  fire  it  blazes  up  like  a  pile  of  wood  shavings, 
and  is  immediately  consumed  to  ashes  with  a  mar- 
velous noise  of  hissing  and  crackling.  And  thus 


138         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

the  bush  I  have  found  burns  itself  up  on  my  plac- 
ing a  lighted  match  at  its  roots. 

I  enjoy  the  spectacle  amazingly  while  it  lasts, 
the  brilliant  tongues  of  white  flame  darting  and 
leaping  through  the  dark  foliage  making  a  very 
pretty  show;  but  presently,  contemplating  the 
heap  of  white  ashes  at  my  feet  where  the  green 
miracle,  covered  with  its  everlasting  flowers,  flour- 
ished a  moment  ago,  I  began  to  feel  heartily 
ashamed  of  myself.  For  how  have  I  spent  my 
day?  I  remember  with  remorse  the  practical  joke 
perpetrated  on  the  simple-minded  coots,  also  the 
consternation  caused  to  a  whole  colony  of  indus- 
trious ants ;  for  the  idler  looks  impatiently  on  the 
occupations  of  others,  and  is  always  glad  of  an 
opportunity  of  showing  up  the  futility  of  their 
labors.  But  what  motive  had  I  in  burning  this 
flowering  bush  that  neither  toiled  nor  spun,  this 
slow-growing  plant,  useless  amongst  plants  as  I 
amongst  my  fellow-men?  Is  it  not  the  fact  that 
something  of  the  spirit  of  our  simian  progenitors 
survives  in  us  still?  Who  that  has  noticed  mon- 
keys in  captivity — their  profound  inconsequent 
gravity  and  insane  delight  in  their  own  unreason- 
ableness— has  not  envied  them  their  immunity 
from  cold  criticism?  That  intense  relief  which 
all  men,  whether  grave  or  gay,  experience  in  es- 
caping from  conventional  trammels  into  the  soli- 
tude, what  is  it,  after  all,  but  the  delight  of  going 
back  to  nature,  to  be  for  a  time,  what  we  are  al- 
ways pining  to  be,  wild  animals,  unconfined  mon- 


IDLE  DAYS  139 

keys,  with  nothing  to  restrain  us  in  our  gambols, 
and  with  only  a  keener  sense  of  the  ridiculous  to 
distinguish  us  from  other  creatures? 

But  what,  I  suddenly  think,  if  some  person  in 
search  of  roots  and  gums,  or  only  curious  to  know 
how  a  field  naturalist  spends  his  days,  gunless 
in  the  woods,  should  be  secretly  following  and 
watching  me  all  the  time  ? 

I  spring  up  alarmed,  and  cast  my  eyes  rapidly 
around  me.  Merciful  heavens!  what  is  that  sus- 
piciously human-looking  object  seventy  yards 
away  amongst  the  bushes'?  Ah,  relief  inexpres- 
sible, it  is  only  the  pretty  hare-like  Dolichotis 
patagonica  sitting  up  on  his  haunches,  gazing  at 
me  with  a  meek  wonder  in  his  large  round  timid 
eyes. 

The  little  birds  are  bolder  and  come  in  crowds, 
peering  curiously  from  every  twig,  chirping  and 
twittering  with  occasional  explosions  of  shrill  de- 
risive laughter.  I  feel  myself  blushing  all  over 
my  face;  their  jeering  remarks  become  intoler- 
able, and,  owl-like,  I  fly  from  their  persecutions  to 
hide  myself  in  a  close  thicket.  There,  with  gray- 
green  curtains  about  and  around  me,  I  lie  on  a 
floor  of  soft  yellow  sand,  silent  and  motionless  as 
my  neighbor  the  little  spider  seated  on  his  geo- 
metric web,  till  the  waning  light  and  the  flute  of 
the  tinamou  send  me  home  to  supper. 


CHAPTER  X 
BIRD  MUSIC  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA 

SUMMER,  winter  and  spring,  it  was  an  unfail- 
ing pleasure  in  Patagonia  to  listen  to  the 
singing  of  the  birds.  They  were  most  abundant 
where  the  cultivated  valley  with  its  groves  and 
orchards  was  narrowest,  and  the  thorny  wilder- 
ness of  the  upland  close  at  hand;  just  as  in  Eng- 
land small  birds  abound  most  where  plantations 
of  fruit  trees  exist  side  by  side  with  or  near  to 
extensive  woods  and  commons.  In  the  first  there 
is  an  unfailing  supply  of  insect  food,  the  second 
affords  them  the  wild  cover  they  prefer,  and  they 
pass  frequently  from  one  to  the  other.  At  a  dis- 
tance from  the  river  birds  were  not  nearly  so 
abundant,  and  in  the  higher  uplands  a  hundred 
miles  from  the  coast  they  were  very  scarce. 

When  the  idle  fit  was  on  me  it  was  my  custom 
to  ramble  in  the  bushy  lands  away  from  the  river, 
especially  during  the  warm  spring  weather,  when 
there  were  some  fresh  voices  to  be  heard  of  mi- 
grants newly  arrived  from  the  tropics,  and  the 
songs  of  the  resident  species  had  acquired  a 
greater  vigor  and  beauty.  It  was  a  pleasure  sim- 
ply to  wander  on  and  on  for  hours,  moving  cau- 

140 


BIED  MUSIC  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA    141 

tiously  among  the  bushes,  pausing  at  intervals  to 
listen  to  some  new  note;  or  to  hide  myself  and 
sit  or  lie  motionless  in  the  middle  of  a  thicket, 
until  the  birds  forgot  or  ceased  to  be  troubled  at 
my  presence.  The  common  resident  mocking-bird 
was  always  present,  each  bird  sitting  motionless 
on  the  topmost  spray  of  his  favorite  thorn,  at 
intervals  emitting  a  few  notes,  a  phrase,  then 
listening  to  the  others. 

But  there  was  one  bitter  drop  in  my  sweet  cup. 
It  vexed  my  mind  and  made  me  almost  unhappy 
to  think  that  travelers  and  naturalists  from 
Europe,  whose  works  were  known  to  me,  were 
either  silent  or  else  said  very  little  (and  that 
mostly  depreciatory)  of  the  bird  music  that  was 
so  much  to  me.  Darwin's  few  words  were  espe- 
cially remembered  and  rankled  most  in  my  mind, 
because  he  was  the  greatest  and  had  given  a  good 
deal  of  attention  to  bird  life  in  southern  South 
America.  The  highest  praise  that  he  gave  to  a 
Patagonian  songster  was  that  it  had  "two  or 
three  pleasant  notes";  and  of  the  Calandria  mock- 
ing-bird, one  of  the  finest  melodists  in  La  Plata, 
he  wrote  that  it  was  nearly  the  only  bird  he  had 
seen  in  South  America  that  regularly  took  its 
stand  for  the  purpose  of  singing;  that  it  was  re- 
markable for  possessing  a  song  superior  to  that 
of  any  other  kind,  and  that  its  song  resembled  that 
of  the  sedge  warbler! 

Speaking  of  British  species,  I  do  not  think  it 
could  be  rightly  said  that  the  song  of  the  sedge 


142         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

warbler  resembles  that  of  the  song-thrush.  I  do 
think  that  the  thrush's  song  often  resembles  that 
of  the  mocking-bird  referred  to,  also  that  it  would 
scarcely  be  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  all  the 
music  of  the  song-thrush  might  be  taken  out  of  the 
Calandria  mocking-bird's  performance  and  not  be 
very  greatly  missed. 

The  desire  to  say  something  on  this  subject  was 
strong  in  me  at  that  time,  for,  leaving  aside  the 
larger  question  of  the  bird  music  of  South  Amer- 
ica, I  could  not  help  thinking  that  these  observers 
had  missed  the  chief  excellence  of  the  songsters 
known  to  me.  But  I  had  no  title  to  speak ;  I  had 
not  heard  the  nightingale,  song-thrush,  blackbird, 
skylark,  and  all  the  other  members  of  that  famous 
choir  whose  melody  has  been  a  delight  to  our  race 
for  so  many  ages;  I  was  without  the  standard 
which  others  had,  and  being  without  it,  could  not 
be  absolutely  sure  that  a  mistake  had  been  made, 
and  that  the  opinion  I  had  formed  of  the  melo- 
dists of  my  own  district  was  not  too  high.  Now 
that  I  am  familiar  with  the  music  of  British  song- 
birds in  a  state  of  nature  the  case  is  different,  and 
I  can  express  myself  on  the  subject  without  fear 
and  without  doubt.  But  I  have  no  intention  of 
speaking  in  this  place  of  the  South  American  bird 
music  I  know,  comparing  it  with  that  of  England. 
And  this  for  two  reasons.  One  is  that  I  have 
already  written  on  this  subject  in  Argentine 
Ornithology  and  The  Naturalist  in  La  Plata.  The 
second  reason  is  because  bird  music,  and,  indeed, 


CALAXDRIA    MOCKIXG-BIRD 


BIED  MUSIC  IN  SOUTH  AMEEICA    143 

bird  sounds  generally,  are  seldom  describable. 
We  have  no  symbols  to  represent  such  sounds  on 
paper,  hence  we  are  as  powerless  to  convey  to 
another  the  impression  they  make  on  us  as  we  are 
to  describe  the  odors  of  flowers.  It  is  hard,  per- 
haps, to  convince  ourselves  of  this  powerlessness ; 
in  my  case  the  saddening  knowledge  was  forced 
on  me  in  such  a  way  that  escape  was  impossible. 
No  person  at  a  distance  from  England  could  have 
striven  harder  than  I  did,  by  inquiring  of  those 
who  knew  and  by  reading  ornithological  works,  to 
get  a  just  idea  of  the  songs  of  British  birds.  Yet 
all  my  pains  were  wasted,  as  I  found  out  after- 
wards when  I  heard  them,  and  when  almost  every 
song  came  to  me  as  a  surprise.  It  could  not  have 
been  otherwise.  To  name  only  half  a  dozen  of  the 
lesser  British  melodists :  the  little  jets  of  brilliant 
melody  spurted  out  by  the  robin;  the  more  sus- 
tained lyric  of  the  wren,  sharp,  yet  delicate;  the 
careless  half-song  half -recitative  of  the  common 
warbler;  the  small  fragments  of  dreamy  aerial 
music  emitted  by  the  wood  wren  amidst  the  high 
translucent  foliage ;  the  hurried,  fantastic  medley 
of  liquid  and  grating  sounds  of  the  reed  warbler; 
the  song,  called  by  some  a  twitter,  of  the  swallow, 
in  which  the  quick,  upleaping  notes  seem  to  dance 
in  the  air,  to  fall  more  than  one  at  a  time  on  the 
sense,  as  if  more  than  one  bird  sang,  spontaneous 
and  glad  as  the  laughter  of  some  fairy-like,  unim- 
aginable child — who  can  give  any  idea  of  such 
sounds  as  these  with  such  symbols  as  words!  It 


144         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

is  easy  to  say  that  a  song  is  long  or  short,  varied 
or  monotonous,  that  a  note  is  sweet,  clear,  mellow, 
strong,  weak,  loud,  shrill,  sharp,  and  so  on;  but 
from  all  this  we  get  no  idea  of  the  distinctive 
character  of  the  sound,  since  these  words  describe 
only  class,  or  generic  qualities,  not  the  specific  and 
individual.  It  sometimes  seems  to  help  us,  in 
describing  a  song,  to  give  its  feeling,  when  it 
strikes  us  as  possessing  some  human  feeling,  and 
call  it  joyous,  glad,  plaintive,  tender,  and  so  on; 
but  this  is,  after  all,  a  rough  expedient,  and,  often 
as  not,  misleads.  Thus,  in  the  case  of  the  nightin- 
gale, I  had  been  led  by  reading  to  expect  to  hear  a 
distinctly  plaintive  song,  and  found  it  so  far  from 
plaintive  that  I  was  swayed  to  the  opposite  ex- 
treme, and  pronounced  it  (with  Coleridge)  a  glad 
song.  But  by-and-by  I  dismissed  this  notion  as 
equally  false  with  the  other;  the  more  I  listened 
the  more  I  admired  the  purity  of  sound  in  some 
notes,  the  exquisite  phrasing,  the  beautiful  con- 
trasts ;  the  art  was  perfect,  but  there  was  no  pas- 
sion in  it  all — no  human  feeling.  Feeling  of  some 
un-human  kind  there  perhaps  was,  but  not  glad- 
ness, such  as  we  imagine  in  the  skylark's  song, 
and  certainly  not  sorrow,  nor  anything  sad. 
Again,  when  we  listen  to  a  song  that  all  have 
agreed  to  call  "tender,"  we  perhaps  recognize 
some  quality  that  faintly  resembles,  or  affects  us 
like,  the  quality  of  tenderness  in  human  speech  or 
vocal  music ;  but  if  we  think  for  a  moment,  we  are 
convinced  that  it  is  not  tenderness,  that  the  effect 


BIED  MUSIC  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA    145 

is  not  quite  the  same;  that  we  have  so  described 
it  only  because  we  have  no  suitable  word;  that 
there  is  really  no  suggestion  of  human  feeling 
in  it. 

The  old  method  of  spelling  bird  notes  and 
sounds  still  finds  favor  with  some  easy-going 
naturalists,  and  it  is  possible  that  those  who  use  it 
do  actually  believe  that  the  printed  word  repre- 
sents some  avian  sound  to  the  reader,  and  that 
those  who  have  never  heard  the  sound  can  by  this 
simple  means  get  an  idea  of  it;  just  as  certain 
arbitrary  marks  or  signs  on  a  sheet  of  written 
music  represent  human  sounds.  It  is  fancy  and  a 
delusion.  We  have  not  yet  invented  any  system 
of  arbitrary  signs  to  represent  bird  sounds,  nor 
are  we  likely  to  invent  such  a  system,  because,  in 
the  first  place,  we  do  not  properly  know  the 
sounds,  and,  owing  to  their  number  and  character, 
cannot  properly  know  more  than  a  very  few  of 
them;  and,  in  the  second  place,  because  they  are 
different  in  each  species :  and  just  as  our  human 
notation  represents  solely  our  human  specific 
sounds,  so  a  notation  of  one  bird's  language,  that 
of  the  skylark,  let  us  say,  would  not  apply  to  the 
language  of  another  species,  the  nightingale,  say, 
on  account  of  the  difference  in  quality  and  timbre 
of  the  two. 

One  cause  of  the  extreme  difficulty  of  describing 
bird  sounds  so  as  to  give  anything  approaching 
to  a  correct  idea  of  them,  lies  in  the  fact  that  in 
most  of  them,  from  the  loudest — the  clanging 


146         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

scream  or  call  that  may  be  heard  a  distance  of  two 
or  three  miles — to  the  faintest  tinkling  or  lisping 
note  that  might  be  emitted  by  a  creature  no  bigger 
than  a  fly,  there  is  a  certain  aerial  quality  which 
makes  them  differ  from  all  other  sounds.  Doubt- 
less several  causes  contribute  to  give  them  this 
character.  There  is  the  great  development  of  the 
vocal  organ,  which  makes  the  voice,  albeit  finer, 
more  far-reaching  than  that  of  other  creatures  of 
equal  size  or  larger.  The  body  in  birds  is  less 
solid ;  it  is  filled  with  air  in  the  bones  and  feathers, 
and  acts  differently  as  a  sounding  board ;  further- 
more, the  extremely  distensible  oesophagus,  al- 
though it  has  no  connection  with  the  trachea,  is 
puffed  out  with  swallowed  air  when  the  bird  emits 
its  notes,  and  this  air,  both  when  retained  and 
when  released,  in  some  way  affects  the  voice. 
Then,  again,  the  bird  sings  or  calls,  as  a  rule, 
from  a  greater  elevation,  and  does  not  sit  squat, 
like  a  toad,  on  his  perch,  but  being  lifted  above 
it  on  his  slender  legs,  the  sounds  he  emits  acquire 
a  greater  resonance. 

There  are  bird  sounds  which  may  be,  and  often 
are,  likened  to  other  sounds ;  to  bells,  to  the  clang- 
ing produced  by  blows  on  an  anvil,  and  to  various 
other  metallic  noises;  and  to  strokes  on  tightly- 
drawn  metal  strings;  also  to  the  more  or  less 
musical  sounds  we  are  able  to  draw  from  wood 
and  bone,  and  from  vessels  of  glass  by  striking 
them  or  drawing  the  moistened  finger-tips  along 
their  rims.  There  are  also  sounds  resembling 


BIRD  MUSIC  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA    147 

those  that  are  uttered  by  mammalians,  as  bellow- 
ings,  lowings,  bleatings,  neighings,  barkings,  and 
yelpings.  Others  simulate  the  sounds  of  various 
musical  instruments,  and  human  vocal  sounds,  as 
of  talking,  humming  a  tune,  whistling,  laughing, 
moaning,  sneezing,  coughing,  and  so  on.  But  in 
all  these,  or  in  a  very  large  majority,  there  is  an 
airy  resonant  quality  which  tells  you,  even  in  a 
deep  wood,  in  the  midst  of  an  unfamiliar  fauna, 
that  the  new  and  strange  sound  is  uttered  by  a 
bird.  The  clanging  anvil  is  in  the  clouds;  the 
tinkling  bell  is  somewhere  in  the  air,  suspended  on 
nothing;  the  invisible  human  creatures  that 
whistle,  and  hum  airs,  and  whisper  to  one  another, 
and  clap  their  hands  and  laugh,  are  not  bound, 
like  ourselves,  to  earth,  but  float  hither  and 
thither  as  they  list. 

Something  of  this  aerial  character  is  acquired 
by  other  sounds,  even  by  the  most  terrestrial, 
when  heard  at  a  distance  in  a  quiet  atmosphere. 
And  some  of  our  finer  sounds,  as  those  of  the 
flute  and  bugle  and  flageolet,  and  some  others, 
when  heard  faintly  in  the  open  air,  have  the  airy 
character  of  bird  notes ;  with  this  difference,  that 
they  are  dim  and  indistinct  to  the  sense,  while 
the  bird's  note,  although  so  airy,  is  of  all  sounds 
the  most  distinct. 

Mr.  John  Burroughs,  in  his  excellent  Impres- 
sions of  some  British  Song  Birds,  has  said,  that 
many  of  the  American  songsters  are  shy  wood- 


148         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

birds,  seldom  seen  or  heard  near  the  habitations 
of  man,  while  nearly  all  the  British  birds  are 
semi-domesticated,  and  sing  in  gardens  and  or- 
chards; that  this  fact,  in  connection  with  their 
more  soft  and  plaintive  voices,  made  American 
song  birds  seem  less  to  the  European  traveler 
than  his  own.  This  statement  would  hold  good, 
and  even  gain  in  force,  if  for  North  America  we 
should  substitute  the  hot  or  larger  part  of  South 
America,  or  of  the  Neotropical  region,  which  com- 
prises the  whole  of  America  south  of  the  Isthmus 
of  Tehuantepec.  Throughout  the  tropical  and 
subtropical  portions  of  this  region,  which  is  vastly 
richer  in  species  than  the  northern  half  of  the 
continent,  the  songsters  certainly  do  not,  like 
those  of  Europe,  mass  themselves  about  the  habi- 
tations of  men,  as  if  sweet  voices  were  given  to 
them  solely  for  the  delectation  of  human  listeners : 
they  are  preeminently  birds  of  the  wild  forest, 
marsh,  and  savannah,  and  if  one  of  their  chief 
merits  has  been  overlooked,  it  is  because  the  Euro- 
pean naturalist  and  collector,  whose  object  is  to 
obtain  many  specimens,  and  some  new  forms,  has 
no  time  to  make  himself  acquainted  with  the  life 
habits  and  faculties  of  the  species  he  meets  with. 
Again,  bird  life  is  extremely  scarce  in  some  places 
within  the  tropics,  and  in  the  deep  forest  it  is 
often  wholly  absent.  Of  British  Guiana,  Mr.  im 
Thurn  writes,  "The  almost  entire  absence  of 
sweet  bird-notes  at  once  strikes  the  traveler  who 
comes  from  thrush  and  warbler-haunted  temperate 


BIRD  MUSIC  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA    149 

lands."  And  Bates  says  of  the  Amazonian  for- 
ests, "The  few  sounds  of  birds  are  of  that  pen- 
sive and  mysterious  character  which  intensifies 
the  feeling  of  solitude  rather  than  imparts  a  sense 
of  life  and  cheerfulness." 

It  is  not  only  this  paucity  of  bird  life  in  large 
tracts  of  country  which  has  made  the  tropics  seem 
to  the  European  imagination  a  region  "  where 
birds  forget  to  sing, ' '  and  has  caused  many  trav- 
elers and  naturalists  to  express  so  poor  an  opinion 
of  South  American  bird  music.  There  remains  in 
most  minds  something  of  that  ancient  notion  that 
brilliant-plumaged  birds  emit  only  harsh  disagree- 
able sounds — the  macaw  and  the  peacock  are  ex- 
amples; while  the  sober-colored  birds  of  temper- 
ate regions,  especially  of  Europe,  have  the  gift  of 
melody;  that  sweet  notes  are  heard  in  England, 
and  piercing  cries  and  grating  screams  within  the 
tropics.  As  a  fact  the  dull-plumaged  species  in 
the  hot  regions  greatly  outnumber  those  that  are 
gaily-colored.  To  mention  only  two  South  Ameri- 
can passerine  families,  the  woodhewers  and  ant- 
birds,  numbering  together  nearly  five  hundred 
species,  or  as  many  as  all  the  species  of  birds  in 
Europe,  are  with  scarcely  an  exception  sober- 
colored.  The  melodious  goldfinch,  yellow  bunt- 
ing, linnet,  blue  tit,  chaffinch,  and  yellow  wagtail, 
would  look  very  gay  and  conspicuous  among  them. 
Yet  these  sober-colored  tropical  birds  I  have  men- 
tioned are  not  singers. 

It  must  also  be  borne  in  mind  that  South  Amer- 


150         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

ica  embraces  a  great  variety  of  climates ;  that  all 
the  vast  region,  which  comprises  Chili,  the  south- 
ern half  of  Argentina,  and  Patagonia,  is  in  the 
temperate  zone.  Also,  that  a  large  proportion  of 
the  South  American  songsters  belong  to  families 
that  are  universal,  in  which  all  the  finest  voices  of 
Europe  are  included — thrushes,  warblers,  wrens, 
larks,  finches.  The  true  thrushes  are  well  repre- 
sented, and  some  differ  but  slightly  from  Euro- 
pean forms — the  whistle  of  the  Argentine  black- 
bird is  sometimes  mistaken  by  Englishmen  for 
that  of  the  smaller  home  bird.  The  mocking-birds 
form  a  group  of  the  same  family  (Turdidae),  but 
with  more  highly-developed  vocal  powers.  It  is 
true  that  the  tanagers,  numbering  about  four  hun- 
dred species,  mostly  brilliantly-colored,  some 
rivaling  the  humming-birds  in  the  vivid  tints  and 
metallic  luster  of  their  plumage,  form  an  exclu- 
sively Neotropical  family;  but  they  are  closely 
related  to  the  finches,  and  in  the  genera  in  which 
these  two  great  and  melodious  families  touch  and 
mingle,  it  is  impossible  to  say  of  many  species 
which  are  finches  and  which  tanagers.  Another 
purely  American  family,  with  a  hundred  and 
thirty  known  species,  a  large  majority  adorned 
with  rich  or  brilliant  or  gay  and  strongly-con- 
trasted colors,  are  the  troupials — Icteridse;  and 
these  are  closely  related  to  the  starlings  of  the 
Old  World. 

Finally,  it  may  be  added  that  the  true  melodists 
of  the  Neotropical  region — the  passerine  birds  of 


BIRD  MUSIC  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA    151 

the  sub-order  Oscines,  which  have  the  developed 
vocal  organ — number  about  twelve  hundred  spe- 
cies:— a  big  fact  when  it  is  remembered  that  of 
the  five  hundred  species  of  birds  in  Europe,  only 
two  hundred  and  five  at  the  most  are  classed  as 
songsters,  inclusive  of  fly-catchers,  corvine  birds 
and  many  others  which  have  no  melody. 

It  is  clear  then,  from  these  facts  and  figures, 
that  South  America  is  not  wanting  in  songsters, 
that,  on  the  contrary,  it  surpasses  all  other  re- 
gions of  the  globe  of  equal  extent  in  number  of 
species. 

It  only  remains  to  say  something  on  another 
matter — namely,  the  character  and  value  of  the 
music.  And  here  the  reader  might  think  that  I 
have  got  myself  into  a  quandary,  since  I  began 
by  complaining  of  the  unworthy  opinion  expressed 
by  European  writers  of  the  melodists  of  my  coun- 
try, and  at  the  same  time  disclaimed  any  inten- 
tion of  attempting  to  describe  their  melody  my- 
self, comparing  it  with  that  of  England.  For- 
tunately for  my  purpose,  not  all  the  travelers  in 
South  America,  whose  words  carry  weight,  have 
turned  a  deaf  or  unappreciative  ear  to  the  bird 
music  of  the  great  bird  continent :  there  are  not- 
able exceptions;  from  these  I  shall  proceed  to 
quote  a  few  passages  in  support  of  my  contention, 
beginning  with  Felix  de  Azara,  a  contemporary 
of  Buffon,  and  concluding  with  the  two  most  illus- 
trious travelers  of  our  own  day  who  have  visited 
South  America — Wallace  and  Bates. 


152         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

Of  Darwin  it  need  only  be  added  that  his  words 
on  the  subject  of  the  songs  of  birds  are  so  few  and 
of  so  little  value  that  it  is  probable  that  this  kind 
of  natural  melody  gave  him  little  or  no  pleasure. 
It  is  not  unusual  to  meet  with  those  who  are  abso- 
lutely indifferent  to  it,  just  as  there  are  others 
who  are  not  pleasurably  moved  by  human  music, 
vocal  or  instrumental. 

In  Spain  Azara  had  been  familiar  from  child- 
hood with  the  songsters  of  Europe,  and  in  Para- 
guay and  La  Plata  he  paid  great  attention  to  the 
language  of  the  species  he  describes.  In  his  ever 
fresh  Apuntamientos  he  says, ' '  They  are  mistaken 
who  think  there  are  not  as  many  and  as  good  song- 
sters here  as  in  Europe ' ' ;  and  in  the  introduction 
to  the  same  work,  referring  to  Buff  on 's  opinion 
concerning  the  inferiority  of  the  American  song- 
sters, he  writes:  "But  if  a  choir  of  singers  were 
selected  in  the  Old  World,  and  .compared  with 
one  of  equal  number  gathered  in  Paraguay,  I  am 
not  sure  which  would  win  the  victory."  Of  the 
house-wren  of  La  Plata  (Troglodytes  furvus), 
Azara  says  that  its  song  is  "in  style  comparable 
to  that  of  the  nightingale,  although  its  phrases 
are  not  so  delicate  and  expressive;  nevertheless 
I  count  it  among  the  first  singers."  This  opinion 
(with  Daines  Barrington's  misleading  table  in  my 
mind)  made  me  doubt  the  correctness  of  his  judg- 
ment, or  memory,  the  wren  in  question  being  an 
exceedingly  cheerful  singer;  but  when  I  came  to 
hear  the  nightingale,  about  whose  song  I  had 


BIED  MUSIC  IN  SOUTH  AMEEICA    153 

formed  so  false  an  idea,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
Azara  was  not  far  out.  Nothing  here  surprised 
me  more  than  the  song  of  the  British  wren — a 
current  of  sharp  high  unshaded  notes,  so  utterly 
different  to  the  brilliant  joyous  and  varied  lyric 
of  his  near  relation  in  that  distant  land. 

The  melodious  wren  family  counts  many  genera, 
rich  in  species,  throughout  the  Neotropical  region : 
and  just  as  in  that  continent  the  thrushes  have 
developed  a  more  varied  and  beautiful  music  in 
the  mocking-birds,  so  it  has  been  with  this  family 
in  such  genera  as  Thyothorus  and  Cyphorhinus, 
which  include  the  celebrated  flute-birds  and  organ- 
birds  of  tropical  South  America.  D'Orbigny,  in 
the  Voyage  dans  I'Amerique  Meridionals,  speaks 
rapturously  of  one  of  these  wrens,  perched  on  a 
bough  overhanging  the  torrent,  where  its  rich 
melodious  voice  seemed  in  strange  contrast  to  the 
melancholy  aspect  of  its  surroundings.  Its  voice, 
he  says,  which  is  not  comparable  to  anything  we 
have  in  Europe,  exceeds  that  of  the  nightingale 
in  volume  and  expression.  Frequently  it  sounds 
like  a  melody  rendered  by  a  flute  at  a  great  dis- 
tance ;  at  other  times  its  sweet  and  varied  cadences 
are  mingled  with  clear  piercing  tones  and  deep 
throat-notes.  We  have  really  no  words,  he  con- 
cludes, adequate  to  express  the  effects  of  this  song, 
heard  in  the  midst  of  a  nature  so  redundant,  and 
of  mountain  scenery  so  wild  and  savage. 

Mr.  Simson,  in  his  Travels  in  the  Wilds  of  Ecua- 
dor, writes  quite  as  enthusiastically  of  a  species 


154         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

of  Cyphorhinus  common  in  that  country.  It  was 
the  mellowest,  most  beautiful  bird  music  he  had 
ever  heard;  the  song  was  not  quite  the  same  in 
all  individuals,  and  in  tone  resembled  the  most 
sweet-sounding  flute;  the  musical  correctness  of 
the  notes  was  astonishing,  and  made  one  imagine 
the  sounds  to  be  produced  by  human  agency. 

Even  more  valuable  is  the  testimony  of  Bates, 
one  of  the  least  impressible  of  the  savants  who 
have  resided  in  tropical  South  America;  yet  his 
account  of  the  bird  is  not  less  fascinating  than 
that  of  D'Orbigny.  "I  frequently  heard,"  he 
writes,  "in  the  neighborhood  of  these  huts  the  re- 
ale  jo,  or  organ-bird  (Cyphorhinus  cantans),  the 
most  remarkable  songster  by  far  of  the  Amazonian 
forest.  When  its  singular  notes  strike  the  ear  for 
the  first  time  the  impression  cannot  be  resisted 
that  they  are  produced  by  a  human  voice.  Some 
musical  boy  must  be  gathering  fruits  in  the 
thicket,  and  is  singing  a  few  notes  to  cheer  him- 
self. The  tones  become  more  fluty  and  plaintive ; 
they  are  now  those  of  a  flageolet,  and  notwith- 
standing the  utter  impossibility  of  the  thing,  one 
is  for  a  moment  convinced  that  some  one  is  play- 
ing that  instrument.  ...  It  is  the  only  songster 
which  makes  an  impression  on  the  natives,  who 
sometimes  rest  their  paddles  whilst  traveling  in 
their  small  canoes,  along  the  shady  by-paths,  as 
if  struck  by  the  mysterious  sound."  The  sound 
must  be  wonderful  indeed  to  produce  such  an 
effect ! 


CYPHOKHIXUS   CANTANS 


BIED  MUSIC  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA    155 

To  finish  with  quotations,  the  following  sensible 
passage  from  Wallace's  Amazon  and  Rio  Negro 
should  help  us  greatly  in  getting  rid  of  an  ancient 
error :  ' '  We  are  inclined  to  think  that  the  general 
statement,  that  the  birds  of  the  tropics  have  a 
deficiency  of  song  proportionate  to  their  brilliancy 
of  plumage,  requires  to  be  modified.  Many  of  the 
brilliant  birds  of  the  tropics  belong  to  families  or 
groups  which  have  no  song;  but  our  most  bril- 
liantly-colored birds,  as  the  goldfinch  and  canary, 
are  not  less  musical,  and  there  are  many  beautiful 
little  birds  here  which  are  equally  so.  We  heard 
notes  resembling  those  of  the  blackbird  and  robin, 
and  one  bird  gave  forth  three  or  four  sweet  plain- 
tive notes  that  particularly  attracted  our  atten- 
tion; while  many  have  peculiar  cries,  in  which 
words  may  be  traced  by  the  fanciful,  and  which 
in  the  stillness  of  the  forest  have  a  very  pleasing 
effect." 

To  return,  before  concluding,  to  Azara  's  remark 
about  a  choir  of  birds  selected  in  Paraguay.  It 
seems  to  me  that  when  the  best  singers  of  any  two 
districts  have  been  compared  and  a  verdict  ar- 
rived at,  something  more  remains  to  be  said.  The 
dulcet  strains  of  a  few  of  the  most  highly-esteemed 
songsters  contribute  only  a  part,  by  no  means  the 
largest  part,  of  the  pleasure  we  receive  from  the 
bird  sounds  of  any  district.  All  natural  sounds 
produce  agreeable  sensations  in  the  healthy:  the 
patter  of  rain  on  the  forest  leaves,  the  murmur  of 
the  wind,  the  lowing  of  kine,  the  dash  of  waves  on 


156         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

the  beach;  and  so,  coining  to  birds,  the  piercing 
tones  of  the  sand  piper,  and  wail  of  the  curlew; 
the  cries  of  passing  migrants ;  the  cawing  of  rooks 
in  the  elms,  and  hooting  of  owls,  and  the  startling 
scream  of  the  jay  in  the  wood,  give  us  pleasure, 
scarcely  less  than  that  produced  by  the  set  song 
of  any  melodist.  There  is  a  charm  in  the  infinite 
variety  of  bird  sounds  heard  in  the  forests  and 
marshes  of  southern  South  America,  where  birds 
are  perhaps  most  abundant,  exceeding  that  of 
many  monotonously  melodious  voices ;  the  listener 
would  not  willingly  lose  any  of  the  indescribable 
sounds  emitted  by  the  smaller  species,  nor  the 
screams  and  human-like  calls,  or  solemn  deep 
boomings  and  drummings  of  the  larger  kinds,  or 
even  the  piercing  shrieks  which  may  be  heard 
miles  away.  Those  tremendous  voices,  that  never 
break  the  quiet  and  almost  silence  of  an  English 
woodland,  affect  us  like  the  sight  of  mountains, 
and  torrents,  and  the  sound  of  thunder  and  of 
billows  breaking  on  the  shore;  we  are  amazed  at 
the  boundless  energy  and  overflowing  joy  of  wild 
bird  life.  The  bird-language  of  an  English  wood 
or  orchard,  made  up  in  most  part  of  melodious 
tones,  may  be  compared  to  a  band  composed  en- 
tirely of  small  wind  instruments  with  a  limited 
range  of  sound,  and  which  produces  no  storms  of 
noise,  eccentric  flights,  and  violent  contrasts,  nor 
anything  to  startle  the  listener — a  sweet  but  some- 
what tame  performance.  The  South  American 
forest  has  more  the  character  of  an  orchestra,  in 


BIRD  MUSIC  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA    157 

which  a  countless  number  of  varied  instruments 
take  part  in  a  performance  in  which  there  are 
many  noisy  discords,  while  the  tender  spiritual 
tones  heard  at  intervals  seem,  by  contrast,  in- 
finitely sweet  and  precious. 


CHAPTER  XI 
SIGHT  IN  SAVAGES 

TN  Patagonia  I  added  something  to  my  small 
•*•  stock  of  private  facts  concerning  eyes — their 
appearance,  color,  and  expression — and  vision, 
subjects  which  have  had  a  mild  attraction  for  me 
as  long  as  I  can  remember.  When,  as  a  boy,  I 
mixed  with  the  gauchos  of  the  pampas,  there  was 
one  among  them  who  greatly  awed  me  by  his 
appearance  and  character.  He  was  distinguished 
among  his  fellows  by  his  tallness,  the  thickness 
of  his  eyebrows  and  the  great  length  of  his  crow- 
black  beard,  the  form  and  length  of  his  facon,  or 
knife,  which  was  nothing  but  a  sword  worn  knife- 
wise,  and  the  ballads  he  composed,  in  which  were 
recounted,  in  a  harsh  tuneless  voice  to  the  strum- 
strum  of  a  guitar,  the  hand-to-hand  combats  he 
had  had  with  others  of  his  class — fighters  and  des- 
peradoes— and  in  which  he  had  always  been  the 
victor,  for  his  adversaries  had  all  been  slain  to 
a  man.  But  his  eyes,  his  most  wonderful  feature, 
impressed  me  more  than  anything  else;  for  one 
was  black  and  the  other  dark  blue.  All  other 
strange  and  extranatural  things  in  nature,  of 
which  I  had  personal  knowledge,  as,  for  instance, 

158 


SIGHT  IN  SAVAGES  159 

mushrooms  growing  in  rings,  and  the  shrinking  of 
the  sensitive  plant  when  touched,  and  Will-o  '-the- 
wisps,  and  crowing  hens,  and  the  murderous  at- 
tack of  social  birds  and  beasts  on  one  of  their  fel- 
lows, seemed  less  strange  and  wonderful  than  the 
fact  that  this  man's  eyes  did  not  correspond,  but 
were  the  eyes  of  two  men,  as  if  there  had  been 
two  natures  and  souls  in  one  body.  My  astonish- 
ment was,  perhaps,  not  unaccountable,  when  we 
reflect  that  the  eye  is  to  us  the  window  of  the 
mind  or  soul,  that  it  expresses  the  soul,  and  is,  as 
it  were,  the  soul  itself  materialized.  Some  person 
lately  published  in  England  a  book  entitled  * '  Soul- 
Shapes,"  treating  not  only  of  the  shapes  of  souls 
but  also  of  their  color.  The  letter-press  of  this 
work  interests  me  less  than  the  colored  plates 
adorning  it.  Passing  over  the  mixed  and  vari- 
colored souls,  which  resemble,  in  the  illustrations, 
colored  maps  in  an  atlas,  we  come  to  the  blue  soul, 
for  which  the  author  has  a  very  special  regard. 
Its  blue  is  like  that  of  the  commonest  type  of  blue 
eye.  This  curious  fancy  of  a  blue  soul  probably 
originated  in  the  close  association  of  eye  and  soul 
in  the  mind.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  while  the 
mixed  and  other  colored  souls  seem  very  much 
out  of  shape,  like  an  old  felt  hat  or  a  stranded 
jelly-fish,  the  pure-colored  blue  soul  is  round,  like 
an  iris,  and  only  wanted  a  pupil  to  be  made  an 
eye. 

But  the  subject  of  the  color  and  expression  of 
eyes  in  man  and  animals  must  be  reserved  for  the 


160         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

next  chapter;  in  the  present  chapter  I  shall  con- 
fine myself  to  the  subject  of  vision  in  savage  and 
semi-barbarous  men  as  compared  with  ours. 

Here  again  I  recall  an  incident  of  my  boyhood, 
and  am  not  sure  that  it  was  not  this  that  first  gave 
me  an  interest  in  the  subject. 

One  summer  day  at  home,  I  was  attentively 
listening,  out  of  doors,  to  a  conversation  between 
two  men,  both  past  middle  life  and  about  the  same 
age,  one  an  educated  Englishman,  wearing  spec- 
tacles, the  other  a  native,  who  was  very  impressive 
in  his  manner,  and  was  holding  forth  in  a  loud 
authoritative  voice  on  a  variety  of  subjects.  All 
at  once  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  spectacles  worn  by 
the  other,  and,  bursting  into  a  laugh,  cried  out, 
"Why  do  you  always  wear  those  eye-hiding 
glasses  straddled  across  your  nose?  Are  they 
supposed  to  make  a  man  look  handsomer  or  wiser 
than  his  fellows,  or  do  you,  a  sensible  person,  real- 
ly believe  that  you  can  see  better  than  another 
man  because  of  them?  If  so,  then  all  I  can  say  is 
that  it  is  a  fable,  a  delusion;  no  man  can  believe 
such  a  thing." 

He  was  only  expressing  the  feeling  that  all  per- 
sons of  his  class,  whose  lives  are  passed  in  the 
semi-barbarous  conditions  of  the  gauchos  on  the 
pampas,  experience  at  the  sight  of  such  artificial 
helps  to  vision  as  spectacles.  They  look  through 
a  pane  of  common  glass,  and  it  makes  the  view 
no  clearer,  but  rather  dimmer — how  can  the  two 
diminutive  circular  panes  carried  before  the  eyes 


SIGHT  IN  SAVAGES  161 

produce  any  other  effect?  Besides,  their  sight  as 
a  rule  is  good  when  they  are  young,  and  as  they 
progress  in  life  they  are  not  conscious  of  deca- 
dence in  it;  from  infancy  to  old  age  the  world 
looks,  they  imagine,  the  same,  the  grass  as  green, 
the  sky  as  blue  as  ever,  and  the  scarlet  verbenas 
in  the  grass  just  as  scarlet.  The  man  lives  in  his 
sight ;  it  is  his  life ;  he  speaks  of  the  loss  of  it  as  a 
calamity  great  as  loss  of  reason.  To  see  spec- 
tacles amuses  and  irritates  him  at  the  same  time ; 
he  has  the  monkey's  impulse  to  snatch  the  idle 
things  from  his  fellow's  nose;  for  not  only  is  it 
useless  to  the  wearer,  and  a  sham,  but  it  is  an- 
noying to  others,  who  do  not  like  to  look  at  a  man 
and  not  properly  see  his  eyes,  and  the  thought 
that  is  in  them. 

To  the  mocking  speech  he  had  made  the  other 
good-humoredly  replied  that  he  had  worn  glasses 
for  twenty  years,  that  not  only  did  they  enable 
him  to  see  much  better  than  he  could  without 
them,  but  they  had  preserved  his  sight  from  fur- 
ther decadence.  Not  satisfied  with  defending  him- 
self against  the  charge  of  being  a  fantastical  per- 
son for  wearing  glasses,  he  in  his  turn  attacked 
the  mocker.  * '  How  do  you  know, ' '  he  said,  ' '  that 
your  own  eyesight  has  not  degenerated  with  time  ? 
You  can  only  ascertain  that  by  trying  on  a  number 
of  glasses  suited  to  a  variety  of  sights,  all  in  some 
degree  defective.  A  score  of  men  with  decaying 
sight  may  be  together,  and  in  no  two  will  the  sight 
be  the  same.  You  must  try  on  spectacles,  as  you 


162         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

try  on  boots,  until  you  find  a  pair  to  fit  you.  You 
may  try  mine  if  you  like ;  our  years  are  the  same, 
and  it  is  just  possible  that  our  eyes  may  be  in  the 
same  condition. ' ' 

The  gaucho  laughed  a  loud  and  scornful  laugh, 
and  exclaimed  that  the  idea  was  too  ridiculous. 
"What,  see  better  with  this  thing!"  and  he  took 
them  gingerly  in  his  hand,  and  held  them  up  to 
examine  them,  and  finally  put  them  on  his  nose — 
something  in  the  spirit  of  the  person  who  takes  a 
newspaper  twisted  into  the  shape  of  an  extin- 
guisher, and  puts  it  on  his  head.  He  looked  at  the 
other,  then  at  me,  then  stared  all  round  him,  with 
an  expression  of  utter  astonishment,  and  in  the 
end  burst  out  in  loud  exclamations  of  delight. 
For,  strange  to  say,  the  glasses  exactly  suited  his 
vision,  which,  unknown  to  him,  had  probably  been 
decaying  for  years.  "Angels  of  heaven,  what  is 
this  I  see ! "  he  shouted.  * '  What  makes  the  trees 
look  so  green — they  were  never  so  green  before! 
And  so  distinct — I  can  count  their  leaves!  And 
the  cart  over  there — why,  it  is  red  as  blood!" 
And  to  satisfy  himself  that  it  had  not  just  been 
freshly  painted  he  ran  over  to  it  and  placed  his 
hand  on  the  wood.  It  proved  hard  to  convince 
him  that  objects  had  once  looked  as  distinct,  and 
leaves  as  green,  and  the  sky  as  blue,  and  red  paint 
as  red,  to  his  natural  sight,  as  they  now  did 
through  those  magical  glasses.  The  distinctness 
and  brightness  seemed  artificial  and  uncanny.  But 
in  the  end  he  was  convinced,  and  then  he  wanted 


' 


GAUCHO    WITH    SPECTACLES 


SIGHT  IN  SAVAGES  163 

to  keep  the  spectacles,  and  pulled  out  his  money 
to  pay  for  them  there  and  then,  and  was  very 
much  put  out  when  their  owner  insisted  on  having 
them  back.  However,  shortly  afterwards  a  pair 
was  got  for  him;  and  with  these  on  his  nose  he 
galloped  about  the  country,  exhibiting  them  to  all 
his  neighbors,  and  boasting  of  the  miraculous 
power  they  imparted  to  his  eyes  of  seeing  the 
world  as  no  one  else  could  see  it. 

My  Patagonian  host  and  friend,  whose  intimate 
knowledge  of  cards  I  have  mentioned  in  a  former 
chapter,  once  informed  me  that  always  after  the 
first  few  rounds  of  a  game  he  knew  some  of  the 
cards,  and  could  recognize  them  as  they  were  be- 
ing dealt  out,  by  means  of  certain  slight  shades 
of  difference  in  the  coloring  of  the  backs.  He  had 
turned  his  attention  to  this  business  when  very 
young,  and  as  he  was  close  upon  fifty  when  he 
imparted  this  interesting  piece  of  information, 
and  had  always  existed  comfortably  on  his  win- 
nings, I  saw  no  reason  to  disbelieve  what  he  told 
me.  Yet  this  very  man,  whose  vision  was  keen 
enough  to  detect  differences  in  cards  so  slight  that 
another  could  not  see  them,  even  when  pointed 
out — this  preternaturally  sharp-eyed  individual 
was  greatly  surprised  when  I  explained  to  him 
that  half-a-dozen  birds  of  the  sparrow  kind,  that 
fed  in  his  courtyard,  and  sang  and  built  their  nests 
in  his  garden  and  vineyard  and  fields,  were  not 
one  but  six  distinct  species.  He  had  never  seen 
any  difference  in  them :  they  all  had  the  same  cus- 


164         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

toms,  the  same  motions;  in  size,  color,  and  shape 
they  were  all  one ;  to  his  hearing  they  all  chirped 
and  twittered  alike,  and  warbled  the  same  song. 

And  as  it  was  with  this  man,  so,  to  some  extent, 
it  is  with  all  of  us.  That  special  thing  which  in- 
terests us,  and  in  which  we  find  our  profit  or 
pleasure,  we  see  very  distinctly,  and  our  memories 
are  singularly  tenacious  of  its  image ;  while  other 
things,  in  which  we  take  only  a  general  interest, 
or  which  are  nothing  to  us,  are  not  seen  so  sharply, 
and  soon  become  blurred  in  memory ;  and  if  there 
happens  to  be  a  pretty  close  resemblance  in  sev- 
eral of  them,  as  in  the  case  of  my  gambling 
friend's  half-a-dozen  sparrows,  which,  like  snow- 
flakes,  were  "seen  rather  than  distinguished,"  this 
indistinctness  of  their  images  on  the  eye  and  the 
mind  causes  them  all  to  appear  alike.  We  have,  as 
it  were,  two  visions — one  to  which  all  objects  ap- 
pear vividly  and  close  to  us,  and  are  permanently 
photographed  on  the  mind;  the  other  which  sees 
things  at  a  distance,  and  with  that  indistinctness 
of  outline  and  uniformity  of  color  which  distance 
gives. 

In  this  place  I  had  proposed  to  draw  on  my  La 
Plata  note-books  for  some  amusing  illustrations  of 
this  fact  of  our  two  sights ;  but  it  is  not  necessary 
to  go  so  far  afield  for  illustrations,  or  to  insist 
on  a  thing  so  familiar.  ' '  The  shepherd  knows  his 
sheep, "  is  a  saying  just  as  true  of  this  country — 
of  Scotland,  at  all  events — as  of  the  far  East. 
Detectives,  also  military  men  who  take  an  interest 


SIGHT  IN  SAVAGES  165 

in  their  profession,  see  faces  more  sharply  than 
most  people,  and  remember  them  as  distinctly  as 
others  remember  the  faces  of  a  very  limited  num- 
ber of  individuals — of  those  they  love  or  fear  or 
constantly  associate  with.  Sailors  see  atmos- 
pheric changes  which  are  not  apparent  to  others ; 
and,  in  like  manner,  the  physician  detects  the  signs 
of  malady  in  faces  which  to  the  uninstructed  vision 
seem  healthy  enough.  And  so  on  through  the 
whole  range  of  professions  and  pursuits  which 
men  have;  each  person  inhabits  a  little  world  of 
his  own,  as  it  were,  which  to  others  is  only  part 
of  the  distant  general  blueness  obscuring  all 
things,  but  in  which,  to  him,  every  object  stands 
out  with  wonderful  clearness,  and  plainly  tells  its 
story. 

All  this  may  sound  very  trite,  very  trivial,  and 
matter  of  common  knowledge — so  common  as  to 
be  known  to  every  schoolboy,  and  to  the  boy  that 
goeth  not  to  school;  yet  it  is  because  this  simple 
familiar  fact  has  been  ignored,  or  has  not  always 
been  borne  in  mind  by  our  masters,  that  they 
have  taught  us  an  error,  namely,  that  savages  are 
our  superiors  in  visual  power,  and  that  the  differ- 
ence is  so  great  that  ours  is  a  dim  decaying  sense 
compared  with  their  brilliant  faculty,  and  that 
only  when  we  survey  the  prospect  through  power- 
ful field-glasses  do  we  rise  to  their  level,  and  see 
the  world  as  they  see  it.  The  truth  is  that  the 
savage  sight  is  no  better  than  ours,  although  it 
might  seem  natural  enough  to  think  the  contrary, 


166         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

on  account  of  their  simple  natural  life  in  the  des- 
ert, which  is  always  green  and  restful  to  the  eye, 
or  supposed  to  be  so;  and  because  they  have  no 
gas  nor  even  candlelight  to  irritate  the  visual 
nerve,  and  do  themselves  no  injury  by  poring  over 
miserable  books. 

Possibly,  then,  the  beginning  of  the  error  was 
in  this  preconceived  notion,  that  greenness  and  the 
absence  of  artificial  light,  with  other  conditions 
of  a  primitive  life,  keep  the  sight  from  deteriorat- 
ing. The  eye's  adaptiveness  did  not  get  sufficient 
credit.  We  know  how  the  muscles  may  be  devel- 
oped by  training,  that  the  blacksmith  and  prize- 
fighter have  mightier  arms  than  others ;  but  it  was 
perhaps  assumed  that  the  complex  structure  and 
extreme  delicacy  of  the  eye  would  make  it  less 
adaptive  than  other  and  coarser  organs.  What- 
ever the  origin  of  the  error  may  have  been,  it  is 
certain  that  it  has  received  the  approval  of  scien- 
tists, and  that  they  never  open  their  lips  on  the 
subject  except  to  give  it  fresh  confirmation.  Their 
researches  have  brought  to  light  a  great  variety 
of  eye-troubles,  which,  in  many  cases,  are  not 
troublesome  at  all,  until  they  are  discovered, 
named  with  a  startling  name,  and  described  in 
terms  very  alarming  to  persons  of  timid  character. 
Frequently  they  are  not  maladies,  but  inherited 
defects,  like  bandy  legs,  prominent  teeth,  crushed 
toes,  tender  skin,  and  numberless  other  malforma- 
tions. That  such  eye-defects  are  as  common 
among  savages  as  among  ourselves,  I  do  not  say, 


SIGHT  IN  SAVAGES  167 

and  to  this  matter  I  shall  return  later  on ;  but  until 
the  eyes  of  savages  are  scientifically  examined,  ft 
seems  a  very  bold  thing  to  say  that  defective  color- 
sense  is  due  to  the  inimical  conditions  of  our  civil- 
ization ;  for  we  know  as  little  about  the  color-sense 
of  savages  as  we  do  about  the  color-sense  of  the 
old  Greeks.  That  the  savage  sight  is  vastly  more 
powerful  than  ours  was  perhaps  not  so  bold  a 
thing  to  say,  seeing  that  in  this  matter  our  teach- 
ers were  misled  by  travelers'  tales,  and  perhaps 
by  other  considerations,  as,  for  instance,  the  ab- 
sence of  artificial  aids  to  sight  among  the  children 
of  nature.  The  redskin  may  be  very  old,  but  as 
he  sits  sunning  himself  before  his  wigwam  in  the 
early  morning  he  is  never  observed  to  trombone 
his  newspaper. 

The  reader  may  spare  himself  the  trouble  of 
smiling,  for  this  is  not  mere  supposition;  in  this 
case  observation  came  first  and  reflection  after- 
wards, for  I  happen  to  know  something  of  savages 
from  experience,  and  when  they  were  using  their 
eyes  in  their  way,  and  for  their  purposes,  I  used 
mine  for  my  purpose,  which  was  different.  It  is 
true  that  the  redskin  will  point  you  out  an  object 
in  the  distance  and  tell  its  character,  and  it  will 
be  to  your  sight  only  a  dark-colored  object,  which 
might  be  a  bush,  or  stone,  or  animal  of  some  large 
kind,  or  even  a  house.  The  secret  of  the  differ- 
ence is  that  his  eye  is  trained  and  accustomed  to 
see  certain  things,  which  he  looks  for  and  expects 
to  find.  Put  him  where  the  conditions  are  new  to 


168         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

him  and  he  will  be  at  fault ;  or,  even  on  his  native 
heath,  set  him  before  an  unfamiliar  or  unexpected 
object,  and  he  will  show  no  superiority  over  his 
civilized  brother.  I  have  witnessed  one  instance 
in  which  not  one  but  five  men  were  all  in  fault,  and 
made  a  wrong  guess ;  while  the  one  person  of  our 
party  who  guessed  correctly,  or  saw  better  per- 
haps, was  a  child  of  civilization  and  a  reader  of 
books,  and,  what  is  perhaps  even  more,  the  de- 
scendant of  a  long  line  of  bookish  men.  This 
amazed  me  at  the  moment,  for  until  then  my  child- 
like faith  in  the  belief  of  Humboldt,  and  of  the 
world  generally,  on  the  subject  had  never  been 
disturbed.  Now  I  see  how  this  curious  thing  hap- 
pened. The  object  was  at  such  a  distance  that 
to  all  of  us  alike  it  presented  no  definite  form,  but 
was  merely  something  dark,  standing  against  a 
hoary  background  of  tall  grass-plumes.  Our 
guides,  principally  regarding  its  size,  at  once 
guessed  it  to  be  an  animal  which  they  no  doubt 
expected  to  find  in  that  place — namely,  a  wild 
horse.  The  other,  who  did  not  have  that  training 
of  the  eye  and  mind  for  distant  objects  in  the 
desert,  which  is  like  an  instinct,  and,  like  instinct, 
is  liable  to  mistakes,  and  who  carefully  studied  its 
appearance  for  himself,  pronounced  it  to  be  a  dark 
bush.  When  we  got  near  it  turned  out  to  be  a 
clump  of  tall  bullrushes,  growing  in  a  place  where 
they  had  no  business  to  grow,  and  burnt  by 
drought  and  frosts  to  so  dark  a  brown  that  at  a 
distance  they  seemed  quite  black. 


SIGHT  IN  SAVAGES  169 

In  the  following  case  the  savage  was  right.  I 
pointed  out  an  object,  dark,  far  off,  so  low  down 
as  to  be  just  visible  above  the  tall  grasses,  passing 
with  a  falling  and  rising  motion  like  that  of  a 
horseman  going  at  a  swinging  gallop.  "  There 
goes  a  mounted  man,"  I  remarked.  "No — a 
traru,"  returned  my  companion,  after  one  swift 
glance;  the  trarii  being  a  large,  black,  eagle-like 
bird  of  the  plains,  the  carancho  of  the  whites — 
Polyborus  tharus.  But  the  object  was  not  neces- 
sarily more  distinct  to  him  than  to  me ;  he  could 
not  see  wings  and  beak  at  that  distance ;  but  the 
traru  was  a  familiar  object,  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  see  at  all  distances — a  figure  in  the  land- 
scape which  he  looked  for  and  expected  to  find.  It 
was  only  a  dark  blot  on  the  horizon;  but  he  knew 
the  animal's  habits  and  appearance,  and  that 
when  seen  far  off,  in  its  low  down,  dilatory,  rising 
and  falling  flight,  it  simulates  the  appearance  of 
a  horseman  in  full  gallop.  To  know  this  and  a 
few  other  things  was  his  vocation.  If  one  had  set 
him  to  find  a  reversed  little  "s"  in  the  middle  of 
a  closely-printed  page  the  tears  would  have  run 
down  his  brown  cheeks,  and  he  would  have  aban- 
doned the  vain  quest  with  aching  eyeballs.  Yet 
the  proofreader  can  find  the  reversed  little  "s" 
in  a  few  moments,  without  straining  his  sight. 
But  it  is  infinitely  more  important  to  the  savage 
of  the  plains  than  to  us  to  see  distant  moving  ob- 
jects quickly  and  guess  their  nature  correctly.  His 
daily  food,  the  recovery  of  his  lost  animals,  and 


170         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

his  personal  safety  depend  on  it;  and  it  is  not, 
therefore,  strange  that  every  blot  of  dark  color, 
every  moving  and  motionless  object  on  the  hori- 
zon, tells  its  story  better  to  him  than  to  a  stran- 
ger; especially  when  we  consider  how  small  a 
variety  of  objects  he  is  called  on  to  see  and  judge 
of  in  the  level  monotonous  region  he  inhabits. 

This  quick  judging  of  dimly  seen  distant  things, 
the  eye  and  mind-achievement  of  the  mounted  bar- 
barian on  the  unobstructed  plains,  is  not  nearly  so 
admirable  as  that  of  his  fellow-savage  in  sub- 
tropical regions  overspread  with  dense  vegetation, 
with  animal  life  in  great  abundance  and  variety, 
and  where  half  the  attention  must  be  given  to 
species  dangerous  to  man,  often  very  small  in  size. 
In  some  hot  humid  forest  districts,  the  European 
who  should  attempt  to  hunt  or  explore  with  bare 
feet  and  legs  would  be  pricked  and  lacerated  at 
almost  every  step  of  his  progress,  and  probably 
get  bitten  by  a  serpent  before  the  day's  end.  Yet 
the  Indian  passes  his  life  there,  and,  naked  or  half 
naked,  explores  the  unknown  wilderness  of  thorns, 
and  has  only  his  arrows  to  provide  food  for  him- 
self and  his  wife  and  children.  He  does  not  get 
pierced  with  thorns  and  bitten  by  serpents,  be- 
cause his  eye  is  nicely  trained  to  pick  them  out  in 
time  to  save  himself.  He  walks  rapidly,  but  he 
knows  every  shade  of  green,  every  smooth  and 
crinkled  leaf,  in  that  dense  tangle,  full  of  snares 
and  deceptions,  through  which  he  is  obliged  to 
walk ;  and  much  as  leaf  resembles  leaf,  he  sets  his 


SIGHT  IN  SAVAGES  171 

foot  where  he  can  safely  set  it,  or,  quickly  choos- 
ing between  two  evils,  where  the  prickles  and 
thorns  are  softest,  or,  for  some  reason  known  to 
him,  hurt  least.  In  like  manner  he  distinguishes 
the  coiled-up  venomous  snake,  although  it  lies  so 
motionless — a  habit  common  to  the  most  deadly 
kinds — and  in  its  dull  imitative  coloring  is  so  diffi- 
cult to  be  distinguished  on  the  brown  earth,  and 
among  gray  sticks  and  sere  and  variegated  leaves. 

A  friend  of  mine,  Fontana  of  Buenos  Ayres, 
who  has  a  life-long  acquaintance  with  the  Argen- 
tine Indians,  expresses  the  opinion  that  at  the  age 
of  twelve  years  the  savage  of  the  Pampas  has 
completed  his  education,  and  is  thereafter  able  to 
take  care  of  himself;  but  that  the  savage  of  the 
Gran  Chaco — the  sub-tropical  Argentine  territory 
bordering  on  Paraguay  and  Bolivia — if  left  to 
shift  for  himself  at  that  age  would  speedily  per- 
ish, since  he  is  then  only  in  the  middle  of  his  long, 
difficult,  and  painful  apprenticeship.  It  was  curi- 
ous and  pitiful,  he  says,  to  see  the  little  Indian 
children  in  the  Chaco,  when  their  skins  were  yet 
tender,  stealing  away  from  their  mother,  and  try- 
ing to  follow  the  larger  ones  playing  at  a  distance. 
At  every  step  they  would  fall,  and  get  pricked 
with  thorns  or  cut  with  sharp-edged  rushes,  and 
tangled  in  the  creepers,  and  hurt  and  crying  they 
would  struggle  on,  and  in  this  painful  manner 
learn  at  last  where  to  set  their  feet. 

The  snake  on  the  ground,  colored  like  the 
ground,  and  shaped  like  the  dead  curved  sticks 


172         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

or  vines  seen  everywhere  on  the  ground,  and  mo- 
tionless like  the  vine,  does  not  more  closely  as- 
similate to  its  surroundings  than  birds  in  trees 
often  do — the  birds  which  the  Indian  must  also 
see.  A  stranger  in  these  regions,  even  the  natural- 
ist with  a  sight  quickened  by  enthusiasm,  finds  it 
hard  to  detect  a  parrot  in  a  lofty  tree,  even  when 
he  knows  that  parrots  are  there ;  for  their  green- 
ness in  the  green  foliage,  and  the  correlated  habit 
they  possess  of  remaining  silent  and  motionless 
in  the  presence  of  an  intruder,  make  them  invisible 
to  him,  and  he  is  astonished  that  the  Indian  should 
be  able  to  detect  them.  The  Indian  knows  how  to 
look  for  them;  it  is  his  trade,  which  is  long  to 
learn ;  but  he  is  obliged  to  learn  it,  for  his  success 
in  life,  and  even  life  itself,  depends  on  it,  since 
in  the  savage  state  Nature  kills  those  who  fail  in 
her  competitive  examinations. 

The  reader  has  doubtless  often  seen  those  little 
picture-puzzles,  variously  labeled  "Where's  the 
Cat!"  or  "Mad  Bull,"  or  "Burglar,"  or  "Police- 
man," or  "Snake  in  the  Grass,"  etc.,  in  which  the 
thing  named  and  to  be  discovered  is  formed  by 
branches  and  foliage,  and  by  running  water,  and 
drapery,  and  lights  and  shadows  in  the  sketch. 
At  first  one  finds  it  extremely  difficult  to  detect 
this  picture  within  a  picture;  and  at  last — with 
the  suddenness  with  which  one  invariably  detects 
a  dull-colored  snake,  seen  previously  but  not  dis- 
tinguished— the  object  sought  for  appears,  and 
is  thereafter  so  plain  to  the  eye  that  one  cannot 


SIGHT  IN  SAVAGES  173 

look  at  the  sketch,  even  held  at  a  distance,  without 
seeing  the  cat,  or  policeman,  or  whatever  it  hap- 
pens to  be.  And  after  patiently  studying  some 
scores  or  hundreds  of  these  puzzles  one  gets  to 
know  just  how  to  find  the  thing  concealed,  and 
finds  it  quickly — almost  at  a  glance  at  last.  Now 
the  ingenious  person  that  first  invented  this  pretty 
puzzle  probably  had  no  thought  of  Nature,  with 
her  curious  imitative  and  protective  resemblances, 
in  his  mind ;  yet  he  might  very  well  have  taken  the 
hint  from  Nature,  for  this  is  what  she  does.  The 
animal  that  must  be  seen  to  be  avoided,  and  the 
animal  that  must  be  seen  to  be  taken,  are  there 
in  her  picture,  sketched  in  with  such  cunning  art 
that  to  the  uninstructed  eye  they  form  only  por- 
tions of  branch  and  foliage  and  shadow  and  sun- 
light above,  and  dull-hued  or  variegated  earth  and 
stones  and  dead  and  withering  herbage  under- 
neath. 

It  is  possible  that  slight  differences  may  exist 
in  the  seeing  powers  of  different  nations,  due  to 
the  effect  of  physical  conditions:  thus,  the  in- 
habitants of  mountainous  districts  and  of  dry  ele- 
vated tablelands  may  have  a  better  sight  than 
dwellers  in  low,  humid,  and  level  regions,  although 
just  the  reverse  may  be  the  case.  Among  Euro- 
pean nations  the  Germans  are  generally  supposed 
to  have  weak  eyes,  owing,  some  imagine,  to  their 
excessive  indulgence  in  tobacco;  while  others  at- 
tribute the  supposed  decay  to  the  form  of  type 
used  in  their  books,  which  requires  closer  looking 


174         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

at  than  ours  in  reading.  That  they  will  deteriorate 
still  further  in  this  direction,  and  from  being  a 
spectacled  people  become  a  blind  one,  to  the  joy 
of  their  enemies,  is  not  likely  to  happen,  and  prob- 
ably the  decadence  has  been  a  great  deal  exagger- 
ated. Animals  living  in  darkness  become  near- 
sighted, and  then  nearer-sighted  still,  and  so  on 
progressively  until  the  vanishing  point  is  reached. 
In  a  community  or  nation  a  similar  decline  might 
begin  from  much  reading  of  German  books,  or 
perpetual  smoking  of  pipes  with  big  china  bowls, 
or  from  some  other  unknown  cause ;  but  the  decay 
could  not  progress  far,  because  there  is  nothing  in 
man  to  take  the  place  of  sight,  as  there  is  in  the 
blind  cave  rats  and  fishes  and  insects.  And  if  we 
could  survey  mankind  from  China  to  Peru  with 
all  the  scientific  appliances  which  are  brought  to 
bear  on  the  Board-school  children  in  London,  and 
on  the  nation  generally,  the  differences  in  the 
powers  of  vision  in  the  various  races,  nations,  and 
tribes,  would  probably  appear  very  insignificant: 
The  mistake  which  eye  specialists  and  writers  on 
the  eye  make  is  that  they  think  too  much  about 
the  eye.  When  they  affirm  that  the  conditions  of 
our  civilization  are  highly  injurious  to  the  sight, 
do  they  mean  all  the  million  conditions,  or  sets  of 
conditions,  embraced  by  our  system,  with  the 
infinite  variety  of  occupations  and  modes  of  living 
which  men  have,  from  the  lighthouse-keeper  to 
the  worker  underground,  whose  day  is  the  dim 
glimmer  of  a  miner 's  lamp  1  l  *  An  organ  exercised 


VIEWING    A   DISTANT   OBJECT 


SIGHT  IN  SAVAGES  175 

beyond  its  wont  will  grow,  and  thus  meet  increase 
of  demand  by  increase  of  supply,"  Herbert  Spen- 
cer says;  but,  he  adds,  there  is  a  limit  soon 
reached,  beyond  which  it  is  impossible  to  go.  This 
increase  of  demand  with  us  is  everywhere — now 
on  this  organ  and  now  on  that,  according  to  our 
work  and  way  of  life,  and  the  eye  is  in  no  worse 
case  than  the  other  organs.  There  are  among  us 
many  cases  of  heart  complaint;  civilization,  in 
such  cases,  has  put  too  great  a  strain  on  that  or- 
gan, and  it  has  reached  the  limit  beyond  which 
it  cannot  go.  And  so  with  the  eye.  The  total 
number  of  the  defective  among  us  is  no  doubt  very 
large,  for  we  know  that  our  system  of  life  retards 
— it  cannot  effectually  prevent — the  healthy  ac- 
tion of  natural  selection.  Nature  pulls  one  way 
and  we  pull  the  other,  compassionately  trying  to 
save  the  unfit  from  the  consequences  of  their  unfit- 
ness.  The  humane  instinct  compels  us;  but  the 
cruel  instinct  of  the  savage  is  less  painful  to  con- 
template than  that  mistaken  or  perverted  compas- 
sion which  seeks  to  perpetuate  unfitness,  and  in 
the  interest  of  suffering  individuals  inflicts  a  last- 
ing injury  on  the  race.  It  is  a  beautiful  and  sacred 
thing  to  minister  to  the  blind,  and  to  lead  them, 
but  a  horrible  thing  to  encourage  them  to  marry 
and  transmit  the  miserable  defective  condition 
to  their  posterity.  Yet  this  is  very  common ;  and 
not  long  ago  a  leader-writer  in  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal London  journals  spoke  of  this  very  thing 
in  terms  of  rapturous  approval,  and  looked  for- 


176         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

ward  to  the  growth  of  a  totally  blind  race  of  men 
among  us,  as  though  it  were  something  to  be  proud 
of — a  triumph  of  our  civilization! 

Pelleschi,  in  his  admirable  book  on  the  Chaco 
Indians,  says  that  malformations  are  never  seen 
in  these  savages,  that  physically  they  are  all  per- 
fect men ;  and  he  remarks  that  in  their  exceedingly 
hard  struggle  for  existence  in  a  thorny  wilderness, 
beset  with  perils,  any  bodily  defect  or  ailment 
would  be  fatal.  And  as  the  eye  in  their  life  is 
the  most  important  organ,  it  must  be  an  eye  with- 
out flaw.  In  this  circumstance  only  do  savages 
differ  from  us — namely,  in  the  absence  or  rarity 
of  defective  eyes  among  them;  and  when  those 
who,  like  Dr.  Brudenell  Carter,  believe  in  the  de- 
cadence of  the  eye  in  civilized  man  quote  Hum- 
boldt's  words  about  the  miraculous  sight  of  South 
American  savages,  they  quote  an  error.  It  is 
not  strange  that  Humboldt  should  have  fallen  into 
it,  for,  after  all,  he  had  only  the  means  which  we 
all  possess  of  finding  out  things — a  limited  sight 
and  a  fallible  mind.  Like  the  savage,  he  had 
trained  his  faculties  to  observe  and  infer,  and  his 
inferences,  like  those  of  the  savage,  were  some- 
times wrong. 

The  savage  sight  is  no  better  than  ours  for  the 
simple  reason  that  a  better  is  not  required.  Na- 
ture has  given  to  him,  as  to  all  her  creatures,  only 
what  was  necessary,  and  nothing  for  ostentation. 
Standing  on  the  ground,  his  horizon  is  a  limited 
one ;  and  the  animals  he  preys  on,  if  often  sharper- 


SIGHT  IN  SAVAGES  177 

eyed  and  swifter  than  he,  are  without  intelligence, 
and  thus  things  are  made  equal.  He  can  see  the 
rhea  as  far  as  the  rhea  can  see  him;  and  if  he 
possessed  the  eagle's  far-seeing  faculty  it  would 
be  of  no  advantage  to  him.  The  high-soaring  eagle 
requires  to  see  very  far,  but  the  low-flying  owl 
is  near-sighted.  And  so  on  through  the  whole  ani- 
mal world:  each  kind  has  sight  sufficient  to  find 
its  food  and  escape  from  its  enemies,  and  nothing 
beyond.  Animals  that  live  close  to  the  surface 
have  a  very  limited  sight.  Moreover,  other  facul- 
ties may  usurp  the  eye's  place,  or  develop  so 
greatly  as  to  make  the  eye  of  only  secondary  im- 
portance as  an  organ  of  intelligence.  The  snake 
offers  a  curious  case.  No  other  sense  seems  to 
have  developed  in  it,  yet  I  take  the  snake  to  be 
one  of  the  nearest-sighted  creatures  in  existence. 
From  long  observation  of  them  I  am  convinced 
that  small  snakes  of  very  sluggish  habits  do  not 
see  distinctly  farther  than  from  one  to  three  yards. 
But  the  sluggish  snake  is  the  champion  faster  in 
the  animal  world,  and  can  afford  to  lie  quiescent 
until  the  wind  of  chance  blows  something  eatable 
in  its  way;  hence  it  does  not  require  to  see  an 
object  distinctly  until  almost  within  striking  dis- 
tance. Another  remarkable  case  is  that  of  the  ar- 
madillo. Of  two  species  I  can  confidently  say 
that,  if  they  are  not  blind,  they  are  next  door  to 
blindness;  yet  they  are  diurnal  animals  that  go 
abroad  in  the  full  glare  of  noon  and  wander  far 
in  search  of  food.  But  their  sense  of  smell  is 


178         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

marvelously  acute,  and,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
mole,  it  has  made  sight  superfluous.  To  come  back 
to  man:  if,  in  a  state  of  nature,  he  is  able  to 
guess  the  character  of  objects  nine  times  in  ten, 
or  nineteen  in  twenty,  seen  as  far  as  he  requires  to 
see  anything,  his  intellectual  faculties  make  a  bet- 
ter sight  unnecessary.  If  the  armadillo's  scent 
had  not  been  so  keen,  and  man  had  not  been  gifted 
with  nimble  brains,  the  sight  in  both  cases  would 
have  been  vastly  stronger;  but  the  sharpening  of 
its  sense  of  smell  has  dimmed  the  armadillo 's  eyes 
and  made  him  blinder  than  a  snake;  while  man 
(from  no  fault  of  his  own)  is  unable  to  see  farther 
than  the  wolf  and  the  ostrich  and  the  wild  ass. 


CHAPTER  XII 
CONCERNING  EYES 

WHITE,  crimson,  emerald  green,  shining 
golden  yellow,  are  amongst  the  colors  seen 
in  the  eyes  of  birds.  In  owls,  herons,  cormorants, 
and  many  other  tribes,  the  brightly-tinted  eye  is 
incomparably  the  finest  feature  and  chief  glory. 
It  fixes  the  attention  at  once,  appearing  like  a 
splendid  gem,  for  which  the  airy  bird-body,  with 
its  graceful  curves  and  soft  tints,  forms  an  ap- 
propriate setting.  When  the  eye  closes  in  death, 
the  bird,  except  to  the  naturalist,  becomes  a  mere 
bundle  of  dead  feathers;  crystal  globes  may  be 
put  into  the  empty  sockets,  and  a  bold  life-imitat- 
ing attitude  given  to  the  stuffed  specimen ;  but  the 
vitreous  orbs  shoot  forth  no  life-like  flames,  the 
"passion  and  the  fire  whose  fountains  are  within" 
have  vanished,  and  the  best  work  of  the  taxider- 
mist, who  has  given  a  life  to  his  bastard  art,  pro- 
duces in  the  mind  only  sensations  of  irritation  and 
disgust.  In  museums,  where  limited  space  stands 
in  the  way  of  any  abortive  attempts  at  copying 
nature  too  closely,  the  stuff er's  work  is  endurable 
because  useful;  but  in  a  drawing-room,  who  does 
not  close  his  eyes  or  turn  aside  to  avoid  seeing  a 

179 


180         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

case  of  stuffed  birds — those  unlovely  mementoes 
of  death  in  their  gay  plumes  ?  Who  does  not  shud- 
der, albeit  not  with  fear,  to  see  the  wild  cat,  filled 
with  straw,  yawning  horribly,  and  trying  to 
frighten  the  spectator  with  its  crockery  glare? 
I  shall  never  forget  the  first  sight  I  had  of  the 
late  Mr.  Gould's  collection  of  humming-birds  (now 
in  the  National  Museum),  shown  to  me  by  the 
naturalist  himself,  who  evidently  took  consider- 
able pride  in  the  work  of  his  hands.  I  had  just 
left  tropical  nature  behind  me  across  the  Atlantic, 
and  the  unexpected  meeting  with  a  transcript  of 
it  in  a  dusty  room  in  Bedford  Square  gave  me  a 
distinct  shock.  Those  pellets  of  dead  feathers, 
which  had  long  ceased  to  sparkle  and  shine,  stuck 
with  wires — not  invisible — over  blossoming  cloth 
and  tinsel  bushes,  how  melancholy  they  made  me 
feel! 

Considering  the  bright  color  and  great  splendor 
of  some  eyes,  particularly  in  birds,  it  seems  prob- 
able that  in  these  cases  the  organ  has  a  twofold 
use:  first  and  chiefly,  to  see;  secondly,  to  intimi- 
date an  adversary  with  those  luminous  mirrors,  in 
which  all  the  dangerous  fury  of  a  creature  brought 
to  bay  is  seen  depicted.  Throughout  nature  the 
dark  eye  predominates;  and  there  is  certainly  a 
great  depth  of  fierceness  in  the  dark  eye  of  a  bird 
of  prey;  but  its  effect  is  less  than  that  produced 
by  the  vividly-colored  eye,  or  even  of  the  white 
eye  of  some  raptorial  species,  as,  for  instance, 
of  the  common  South  American  hawk,  Asturina 


CONCERNING  EYES  181 

pucherani.  Violent  emotions  are  associated  in  our 
minds — possibly,  also,  in  the  minds  of  other  spe- 
cies— with  certain  colors.  Bright  red  seems  the 
appropriate  hue  of  anger — the  poet  Herbert  even 
calls  the  rose  "angrie  and  brave"  on  account  of 
its  hue — and  the  red  or  orange  certainly  expresses 
resentment  better  than  the  dark  eye.  Even  a  very 
slight  spontaneous  variation  in  the  coloring  of  the 
irides  might  give  an  advantage  to  an  individual 
for  natural  selection  to  act  on ;  for  we  can  see  in 
almost  any  living  creature  that  not  only  in  its 
perpetual  metaphorical  struggle  for  existence  is 
its  life  safeguarded  in  many  ways ;  but  when  pro- 
tective resemblances,  flight,  and  instincts  of  con- 
cealment all  fail,  and  it  is  compelled  to  engage  in 
a  real  struggle  with  a  living  adversary,  it  is  pro- 
vided for  such  occasions  with  another  set  of  de- 
fenses. Language  and  attitudes  of  defiance  come 
into  play;  feathers  or  hairs  are  erected;  beaks 
snap  and  strike,  or  teeth  are  gnashed,  and  the 
mouth  foams  or  spits ;  the  body  puffs  out ;  wings 
are  waved  or  feet  stamped  on  the  ground,  and 
many  other  intimidating  gestures  of  rage  are  prac- 
tised. It  is  not  possible  to  believe  that  the  color- 
ing of  the  crystal  globes,  towards  which  an  op- 
ponent's sight  is  first  directed,  and  which  most 
vividly  exhibit  the  raging  emotions  within,  can 
have  been  entirely  neglected  as  a  means  of  defense 
by  the  principle  of  selection  in  nature.  For  all 
these  reasons  I  believe  the  bright-colored  eye  is  an 
improvement  on  the  dark  eye. 


182         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

Man  has  been  very  little  improved  in  this  direc- 
tion, the  dark  eye,  except  in  the  north  of  Europe, 
having  been,  until  recent  times,  almost  or  quite 
universal.  The  blue  eye  does  not  seem  to  have 
any  advantage  for  man  in  a  state  of  nature,  being 
mild  where  fierceness  of  expression  is  required; 
it  is  almost  unknown  amongst  the  inferior  crea- 
tures; and  only  on  the  supposition  that  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  eye  is  less  important  to  man's 
welfare  than  it  is  to  that  of  other  species,  can 
we  account  for  its  survival  in  a  branch  of  the  hu- 
man race. 

Cerulean  eyes;  locks  comparable  in  hue  to  the 
''yellow  hair  that  floats  on  the  eastern  clouds," 
and  a  white  body,  like  snow  with  a  blush  on  it — 
what  could  Nature  have  been  dreaming  of  when 
she  gave  such  things  to  her  rudest  most  savage 
humans !  That  they  should  have  overcome  dark- 
eyed  races,  and  trod  on  their  necks  and  ruined 
their  works,  strikes  one  as  unnatural,  and  reads 
like  a  fable. 

Little,  however,  as  the  human  eye  has  changed, 
assuming  it  to  have  been  dark  originally,  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  spontaneous  variation  in  indi- 
viduals, light  hazel  and  blue-gray  being  appar- 
ently the  most  variable.  I  have  found  curiously 
marked  and  spotted  eyes  not  uncommon;  in  some 
instances  the  spots  being  so  black,  round,  and 
large  as  to  produce  the  appearance  of  eyes  with 
clusters  of  pupils  on  them.  I  have  known  one  per- 
son with  large  brown  spots  on  light  blue-gray 


CONCERNING  EYES  183 

eyes,  whose  children  all  inherited  the  peculiarity ; 
also  another  with  reddish  hazel  irides  thickly 
marked  with  fine  characters  resembling  Greek  let- 
ters. This  person  was  an  Argentine  of  Spanish 
blood,  and  was  called  by  his  neighbors  ojos  escri- 
tos,  or  written  eyes.  It  struck  me  as  a  very  curi- 
ous circumstance  that  these  eyes,  both  in  their 
ground  color  and  the  form  and  disposition  of  the 
markings  traced  on  them,  were  precisely  like  the 
eyes  of  a  species  of  grebe,  common  in  La  Plata. 
Browning  had  perhaps  observed  eyes  of  this  kind 
in  some  person  he  had  met,  when  he  makes  his 
magician  say  to  Pietro  de  Abano, — 

Mark  within  my  eyes  its  iris  mystic  lettered — 
That's  my  name! 

But  we  look  in  vain  amongst  men  for  the  splen- 
did crimson,  flaming  yellow,  or  startling  white 
orbs  which  would  have  made  the  dark-skinned 
brave,  inspired  by  violent  emotions,  a  being  ter- 
rible to  see.  Nature  has  neglected  man  in  this 
respect,  and  it  is  to  remedy  the  omission  that  he 
stains  his  face  with  bright  pigments  and  crowns 
his  head  with  eagles '  barred  plumes. 

The  quality  of  shining  in  the  dark,  seen  in  the 
eyes  of  many  nocturnal  and  semi-nocturnal  spe- 
cies, has  always,  I  believe,  a  hostile  purpose. 
When  found  in  inoffensive  species,  as,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  lemurs,  it  can  only  be  attributed  to 
mimicry,  and  this  would  be  a  parallel  case  with 


184         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

butterflies  mimicking  the  brilliant  "  warning  col- 
ors ' '  of  other  species  on  which  birds  do  not  prey. 
Cats  amongst  mammals,  and  owls  amongst  birds, 
have  been  most  highly  favored ;  but  to  the  owls  the 
palm  must  be  given.  The  feline  eyes,  as  of  a  puma 
or  wild  cat,  blazing  with  wrath,  are  wonderful  to 
see ;  sometimes  the  sight  of  them  affects  one  like  an 
electric  shock ;  but  for  intense  brilliance  and  quick 
changes,  the  dark  orbs  kindling  with  the  startling 
suddenness  of  a  cloud  illumined  by  flashes  of  light- 
ning, the  yellow  globes  of  the  owl  are  unparalleled. 
Some  readers  might  think  my  language  exagger- 
ated. Descriptions  of  bright  sunsets  and  of 
storms  with  thunder  and  lightning  would,  no 
doubt,  sound  extravagant  to  one  who  had  never 
witnessed  these  phenomena.  Those  only  who 
spend  years  "conversing  with  wild  animals  in 
desert  places,"  to  quote  Azara's  words,  know  that, 
as  with  the  atmosphere,  so  with  animal  life,  there 
are  special  moments ;  and  that  a  creature  present- 
ing a  very  sorry  appearance  dead  in  a  museum, 
or  living  in  captivity,  may,  when  hard  pressed 
and  fighting  for  life  in  its  own  fastness,  be  sub- 
limed by  its  fury  into  a  weird  and  terrible  ob- 
ject. 

Nature  has  many  surprises  for  those  who  wait 
on  her;  one  of  the  greatest  she  ever  favored  me 
with  was  the  sight  of  a  wounded  Magellanic  eagle- 
owl  I  shot  in  Patagonia.  The  haunt  of  this  bird 
was  an  island  in  the  river,  overgrown  with  giant 
grasses  and  tall  willows,  leafless  now,  for  it  was 


CONCERNING  EYES  185 

in  the  middle  of  winter.  Here  I  sought  for  and 
found  him  waiting  on  his  perch  for  the  sun  to  set. 
He  eyed  me  so  calmly  when  I  aimed  my  gun,  I 
scarcely  had  the  heart  to  pull  the  trigger.  He 
had  reigned  there  so  long,  the  feudal  tyrant  of 
that  remote  wilderness !  Many  a  water-rat,  steal- 
ing like  a  shadow  along  the  margin  between  the 
deep  stream  and  the  giant  rushes,  he  had  snatched 
away  to  death;  many  a  spotted  wild  pigeon  had 
woke  on  its  perch  at  night  with  his  cruel  crooked 
talons  piercing  its  flesh ;  and  beyond  the  valley  on 
the  bushy  uplands  many  a  crested  tinamou  had 
been  slain  on  her  nest  and  her  beautiful  glossy 
dark  green  eggs  left  to  grow  pale  in  the  sun  and 
wind,  the  little  lives  that  were  in  them  dead  be- 
cause of  their  mother's  death.  But  I  wanted  that 
bird  badly,  and  hardened  my  heart ;  the  ' '  demonia- 
cal laughter"  with  which  he  had  so  often  answered 
the  rushing  sound  of  the  swift  black  river  at  even- 
tide would  be  heard  no  more.  I  fired ;  he  swerved 
on  his  perch,  remained  suspended  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, then  slowly  fluttered  down.  Behind  the 
spot  where  he  had  fallen  was  a  great  mass  of 
tangled  dark-green  grass,  out  of  which  rose  the 
tall,  slender  boles  of  the  trees ;  overhead  through 
the  fretwork  of  leafless  twigs  the  sky  was  flushed 
with  tender  roseate  tints,  for  the  sun  had  now  gone 
down  and  the  surface  of  the  earth  was  in  shadow. 
There,  in  such  a  scene,  and  with  the  wintry  quiet 
of  the  desert  over  it  all,  I  found  my  victim  stung, 
by  his  wounds  to  fury  and  prepared  for  the  last 


186         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

supreme  effort.  Even  in  repose  he  is  a  big  eagle- 
like  bird;  now  his  appearance  was  quite  altered, 
and  in  the  dim,  uncertain  light  he  looked  gigantic 
in  size — a  monster  of  strange  form  and  terrible 
aspect.  Each  particular  feather  stood  out  on  end, 
the  tawny  barred  tail  spread  out  like  a  fan,  the 
immense  tiger-colored  wings  wide  open  and  rigid, 
so  that  as  the  bird  that  had  clutched  the  grass  with 
his  great  feathered  claws,  swayed  his  body  slowly 
from  side  to  side — just  as  a  snake  about  to  strike 
sways  his  head,  or  as  an  angry  watchful  cat  moves 
its  tail — first  the  tip  of  one,  then  of  the  other  wing 
touched  the  ground.  The  black  horns  stood  erect, 
while  in  the  center  of  the  wheel-shaped  head  the 
beak  snapped  incessantly,  producing  a  sound  re- 
sembling the  clicking  of  a  sewing-machine.  This 
was  a  suitable  setting  for  the  pair  of  magnificent 
furious  eyes,  on  which  I  gazed  with  a  kind  of  fas- 
cination, not  unmixed  with  fear  when  I  remem- 
bered the  agony  of  pain  suffered  on  former  occa- 
sions from  sharp,  crooked  talons  driven  into  me 
to  the  bone.  The  irides  were  of  a  bright  orange 
color,  but  every  time  I  attempted  to  approach  the 
bird  they  kindled  into  great  globes  of  quivering 
yellow  flame,  the  black  pupils  being  surrounded 
by  a  scintillating  crimson  light  which  threw  out 
minute  yellow  sparks  into  the  air.  When  I  retired 
from  the  bird  this  preternatural  fiery  aspect  would 
instantly  vanish. 

The  dragon  eyes  of  that  Magellanic  owl  haunt 
me  still,  and  when  I  remember  them,  the  bird's 


MAGELLAN1C    EAGLE   OWL 


CONCERNING  EYES  187 

death  still  weighs  on  my  conscience,  albeit  by 
killing  it  I  bestowed  on  it  that  dusty  immortality 
which  is  the  portion  of  stuffed  specimens  in  a 
museum. 

The  question  as  to  the  cause  of  this  fiery  ap- 
pearance is  one  hard  to  answer.  We  know  that 
the  source  of  the  luminosity  in  owls'  and  cats' 
eyes  is  the  tapedum  lucidum — the  light-reflecting 
membrane  between  the  retina  and  the  sclerotic 
coat  of  the  eyeball;  but  the  mystery  remains. 
"When  with  the  bird,  I  particularly  noticed  that 
every  time  I  retired  the  nictitating  membrane 
would  immediately  cover  the  eyes  and  obscure 
them  for  some  time,  as  they  will  when  an  owl  is 
confronted  with  strong  sunlight;  and  this  gave 
me  the  impression  that  the  fiery,  flashing  appear- 
ance was  accompanied  with,  or  followed  by,  a 
burning  or  smarting  sensation.  I  will  here  quote 
a  very  suggestive  passage  from  a  letter  on  this 
subject  written  to  me  by  a  gentleman  of  great  at- 
tainments in  science :  ' '  Eyes  certainly  do  shine  in 
the  dark — some  eyes,  e.g.  those  of  cats  and  owls; 
and  the  scintillation  you  speak  of  is  probably  an- 
other form  of  the  phenomenon.  It  probably  de- 
pends upon  some  extra-sensibility  of  the  retina 
analogous  to  what  exists  in  the  molecular  consti- 
tution of  sulphide  of  calcium  and  other  phosphor- 
escent substances.  The  difficulty  is  in  the  scintilla- 
tion. We  know  that  light  of  this  character  has  its 
source  in  the  heat  vibrations  of  molecules  at  the 
temperature  of  incandescence,  and  the  electric 


188         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

light  is  no  exception  to  the  rule.  A  possible  ex- 
planation is  that  suprasensitive  retinae  in  times  of 
excitement  become  increasedly  phosphorescent, 
and  the  same  excitement  causes  a  change  in  the 
curvature  of  the  lens,  so  that  the  light  is  focused, 
and  pro  tanto  brightened  into  sparks.  Seeing  how 
little  we  know  of  natural  forces,  it  may  be  that 
what  we  call  light  in  such  a  case  is  eye  speaking  to 
eye — an  emanation  from  the  window  of  one  brain 
into  the  window  of  another. ' ' 

Probably  all  those  cases  one  hears  and  reads 
about — some  historical — of  human  eyes  flashing 
fire  and  blazing  with  wrath,  are  mere  poetic  exag- 
gerations. One  would  not  look  for  these  fiery  eyes 
amongst  the  peaceful  children  of  civilization,  who, 
when  they  make  war,  do  so  without  anger,  and  kill 
their  enemies  by  machinery,  without  even  seeing 
them;  but  amongst  savage  or  semi-savage  men, 
carnivorous  in  their  diet,  fierce  in  disposition,  and 
extremely  violent  in  their  passions.  It  is  precisely 
amongst  people  of  this  description  that  I  have 
lived  a  great  deal.  I  have  often  seen  them  frenzied 
with  excitement,  their  faces  white  as  ashes,  hair 
erect,  and  eyes  dropping  great  tears  of  rage,  but 
I  have  never  seen  anything  in  them  even  ap- 
proaching to  that  fiery  appearance  described  in 
the  owl. 

Nature  has  done  comparatively  little  for  the 
human  eye,  not  only  in  denying  it  the  terrifying 
splendors  found  in  some  other  species,  but  also 
in  the  minor  merit  of  beauty.  When  going  about 


CONCERNING-  EYES  189 

the  world  one  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  vari- 
ous races  and  tribes  of  men,  differing  in  the  color 
of  their  skins  and  in  the  climates  and  conditions 
they  live  in,  ought  to  have  differently-colored  eyes. 
In  Brazil,  I  was  greatly  struck  with  the  magnifi- 
cent appearance  of  many  of  the  negro  women  I 
saw  there;  well-formed,  tall,  majestic  creatures, 
often  appropriately  clothed  in  loose  white  gowns 
and  white  turban-like  headdresses ;  while  on  their 
round  polished  blue-black  arms  they  wore  silver 
armlets.  It  seemed  to  me  that  pale  golden  irides, 
as  in  the  intensely  black  tyrant-bird  Lichenops 
perspicillata,  would  have  given  a  finishing  glory 
to  these  sable  beauties,  completing  their  strange 
unique  loveliness.  Again  in  that  exquisite  type  of 
female  beauty  which  we  see  in  the  white  girl  wittt 
a  slight  infusion  of  negro  blood,  giving  the  grace- 
ful frizzle  to  the  hair,  the  purple-red  hue  to  the 
lips,  and  the  delicate  dusky  terra-cotta  tinge  to 
the  skin,  an  eye  more  suitable  than  the  dark  dull 
brown  would  have  been  the  intense  orange-brown 
seen  in  some  lemur's  eyes.  For  many  very  dark- 
skinned  tribes  nothing  more  beautiful  than  the 
ruby-red  iris  could  be  imagined;  while  sea-green 
eyes  would  have  best  suited  dusky-pale  Poly- 
nesians and  languid  peaceful  tribes  like  the  one 
described  in  Tennyson's  poem: — 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 
Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 
The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters  came. 


190         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

Since  we  cannot  have  the  eyes  we  should  like 
best  to  have,  let  us  consider  those  that  Nature 
has  given  us.  The  incomparable  beauty  of  the 
"emerald  eye"  has  been  greatly  praised  by  the 
poets,  particularly  by  those  of  Spain.  Emerald 
eyes,  if  they  only  existed,  would  certainly  be  beau- 
tiful beyond  all  others,  especially  if  set  off  with 
dark  or  black  hair  and  that  dim  pensive  creamy 
pallor  of  the  skin  frequently  seen  in  warm  cli- 
mates, and  which  is  more  beautiful  than  the  rosy 
complexion  prevalent  in  northern  regions,  though 
not  so  lasting.  But  either  they  do  not  exist  or  else 
I  have  been  very  unfortunate,  for  after  long  seek- 
ing I  am  compelled  to  confess  that  never  yet  have 
I  been  gratified  by  the  sight  of  emerald  eyes.  I 
have  seen  eyes  called  green,  that  is,  eyes  with  a 
greenish  tinge  or  light  in  them,  but  they  were  not 
the  eyes  I  sought.  One  can  easily  forgive  the 
poets  their  misleading  descriptions,  since  they  are 
not  trustworthy  guides,  and  very  often,  like 
Humpty  Dumpty  in  Through  the  Looking  Glass, 
make  words  do  ' '  extra  work. ' '  For  sober  fact  one 
is  accustomed  to  look  to  men  of  science;  yet, 
strange  to  say,  while  these  complain  that  we — the 
unscientific  ones — are  without  any  settled  and  cor- 
rect ideas  about  the  color  of  our  own  eyes,  they 
have  endorsed  the  poet's  fable,  and  have  even 
taken  considerable  pains  to  persuade  the  world  of 
its  truth.  Dr.  Paul  Broca  is  their  greatest  au- 
thority. In  his  Manual  for  Anthropologists  he 
divides  human  eyes  into  four  distinct  types — 


CONCERNING  EYES  191 

orange,  green,  blue,  gray;  and  these  four  again 
into  five  varieties  each.  The  symmetry  of  such 
a  classification  suggests  at  once  that  it  is  an  arbi- 
trary one.  Why  orange,  for  instance?  Light 
hazel,  clay  color,  red,  dull  brown,  cannot  prop- 
erly be  called  orange ;  but  the  division  requires  the 
five  supposed  varieties  of  the  dark  pigmented  eye 
to  be  grouped  under  one  name,  and  because  there 
is  yellow  pigment  in  some  dark  eyes  they  are  all 
called  orange.  Again,  to  make  the  five  gray  varie- 
ties the  lightest  gray  is  made  so  very  light  that 
only  when  placed  on  a  sheet  of  white  paper  does  it 
show  gray  at  all;  but  there  is  always  some  color 
in  the  human  skin,  so  that  Broca's  eye  would  ap- 
pear absolutely  white  by  contrast — a  thing  un- 
heard of  in  nature.  Then  we  have  the  green,  be- 
ginning with  the  palest  sage  green,  and  up  through 
grass  green  and  emerald  green,  to  the  deepest  sea 
green  and  the  green  of  the  holly  leaf.  Do  such 
eyes  exist  in  nature  ?  In  theory  they  do.  The  blue 
eye  is  blue,  and  the  gray  gray,  because  in  such  eyes 
there  is  no  yellow  or  brown  pigment  on  the  outer 
surface  of  the  iris  to  prevent  the  dark  purple  pig- 
ment— the  uvea — on  the  inner  surface  from  being 
seen  through  the  membrane,  which  has  different 
degrees  of  opacity,  making  the  eye  appear  gray, 
light  or  dark  blue,  or  purple,  as  the  case  may  be. 
When  yellow  pigment  is  deposited  in  small  quan- 
tity on  the  outer  membrane,  then  it  should,  accord- 
ing to  the  theory,  blend  with  the  inner  blue  and 
make  green.  Unfortunately  for  the  anthropolo- 


192         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

gists,  it  doesn't.  It  only  gives  in  some  cases  the 
greenish  variable  tinge  I  have  mentioned,  but 
nothing  approaching  to  the  decided  greens  of 
Broca's  tables.  Given  an  eye  with  the  right  de- 
gree of  translucency  in  the  membrane  and  a  very 
thin  deposit  of  yellow  pigment  spread  equally 
over  the  surface;  the  result  would  be  a  perfectly 
green  iris.  Nature,  however,  does  not  proceed 
quite  in  this  way.  The  yellow  pigment  varies 
greatly  in  hue;  it  is  muddy  yellow,  brown,  or 
earthy  color,  and  it  never  spreads  itself  uniformly 
over  the  surface,  but  occurs  in  patches  grouped 
about  the  pupil  and  spreads  in  dull  rays  or  lines 
and  spots,  so  that  the  eye  •  which  science  says 
"ought  to  be  called  green"  is  usually  a  very  dull 
blue-gray,  or  brownish-blue,  or  clay  color,  and  in 
some  rare  instances  shows  a  changeable  greenish 
hue. 

In  the  remarks  accompanying  the  Report  of  the 
Anthropometric  Committee  of  the  British  As- 
sociation for  1881  and  1883,  it  is  said  that  green 
eyes  are  more  common  than  the  tables  indicater 
and  that  eyes  that  should  properly  be  called  green, 
owing  to  the  popular  prejudice  against  that  term, 
have  been  recorded  as  gray  or  some  other  color. 

Does  any  such  prejudice  exist?  or  is  it  necessary 
to  go  about  with  the  open  manual  in  our  hands 
to  know  a  green  eye  when  we  see  one  f  No  doubt 
the  "popular  prejudice"  is  supposed  to  have  its 
origin  in  Shakespeare's  description  of  jealousy  as 
a  green-eyed  monster ;  but  if  Shakespeare  has  any 


CONCERNING  EYES  193 

great  weight  with  the  popular  mind,  the  prejudice 
ought  to  be  the  other  way,  since  he  is  one  of  those 
who  sing  the  splendors  of  the  green  eye. 
Thus  in  Romeo  and  Juliet : — 

The  eagle,  madam, 

Hath  not  so  green,  so  quick,  so  fair  an  eye 
As  Paris  hath. 

The  lines  are,  however,  nonsense,  as  green-eyed 
eagles  have  no  existence;  and  perhaps  the  ques- 
tion of  the  popular  prejudice  is  not  worth  argu- 
ing about. 

Once  only  in  my  long  years'  quest  after  green 
eyes,  during  which  I  have  sometimes  walked  miles 
along  a  crowded  thoroughfare  seeing  the  orbs  of 
every  person  that  passed  me,  was  I  led  to  think 
that  my  reward  had  come  at  last.  On  taking  my 
seat  in  a  public  conveyance  I  noticed  a  fashion- 
ably-dressed lady,  of  a  singularly  attractive  ap- 
pearance, on  the  opposite  seat,  but  a  little  higher 
up.  Her  skin  was  somewhat  pale,  her  hair  dark, 
and  her  eyes  green!  "At  last!"  I  exclaimed, 
mentally,  glad  as  if  I  had  found  a  priceless  gem. 
It  was  misery  to  me  to  have  to  observe  her  fur- 
tively, to  think  that  I  should  so  soon  lose  sight  of 
her!  Several  minutes  passed,  during  which  she 
did  not  move  her  head,  and  still  the  eyes  were 
green — not  one  of  the  dull  and  dark  hues  that 
Broca  imagined  and  painted,  but  a  clear,  exquis- 
itely beautiful  sea-green,  as  sea-water  looks  with 
a  strong  sunlight  in  it,  where  it  is  deep  and  pure, 


194         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

in  the  harbor  of  some  rocky  island  under  the 
tropics.  At  length,  not  yet  convinced,  I  moved  a 
little  higher  up  on  my  seat,  so  that  when  I  should 
next  look  at  her  her  eyes  would  meet  mine  full  and 
straight.  The  wished  (and  feared)  moment  came : 
alas !  the  eyes  were  no  longer  green,  but  gray,  and 
not  very  pure  in  color.  Having  looked  green  when 
viewed  obliquely,  they  could  not  be  a  very  pure 
gray :  they  were  simply  gray  eyes  with  an  exceed- 
ingly thin  pigment,  so  thin  as  not  to  appear  as  pig- 
ment, equally  spread  over  the  surface  of  the  irides. 
This  made  the  eyes  in  some  lights  appear  green, 
just  as  a  dog's  eyes,  when  the  animal  sits  in 
shadow  and  the  upturned  balls  catch  the  light, 
sometimes  look  pure  green.  I  know  a  dog,  now 
living,  whose  eyes  in  such  circumstances  always 
appear  of  that  color.  But  as  a  rule  the  dog's 
eyes  take  a  hyaline  blue. 

If  we  could  leave  out  the  mixed  or  neutral  eyes, 
which  are  in  a  transitional  state — blue  eyes  with 
some  pigment  obscuring  their  blueness,  and  mak- 
ing them  quite  unclassifiable,  as  no  two  pairs  of 
eyes  are  found  alike — then  all  eyes  might  be  di- 
vided into  two  great  natural  orders,  those  with 
and  those  without  pigment  on  the  outer  surface 
of  the  membrane.  They  could  not  well  be  called 
light  and  dark  eyes,  since  many  hazel  eyes  are 
really  lighter  than  purple  and  dark  gray  eyes. 
They  might,  however,  be  simply  called  brown  and 
blue,  for  in  all  eyes  with  the  outer  pigment  there 
is  brown,  or  something  scarcely  distinguishable 


CONCEKNING  EYES  195 

from  brown;  and  all  eyes  without  pigment,  even 
the  purest  grays,  have  some  blueness. 

Brown  eyes  express  animal  passions  rather  than 
intellect  and  the  higher  moral  feelings.  They  are 
frequently  equaled  in  their  own  peculiar  kind  of 
eloquence  by  the  brown  or  dark  eyes  in  the  domes- 
tic dog.  In  animals  there  is,  in  fact,  often  an  exag- 
gerated eloquence  of  expression.  To  judge  from 
their  eyes,  caged  cats  and  eagles  in  the  Zoological 
Gardens  are  all  furred  and  feathered  Bonnivards. 
Even  in  the  most  intellectual  of  men  the  brown 
eye  speaks  more  of  the  heart  than  of  the  head.  In 
the  inferior  creatures  the  black  eye  is  always  keen 
and  cunning  or  else  soft  and  mild,  as  in  fawns, 
doves,  aquatic  birds,  etc.;  and  it  is  remarkable 
that  in  man  also  the  black  eye — dark  brown  iris 
with  large  pupil — generally  has  one  or  the  other 
of  these  predominant  expressions.  Of  course,  in 
highly  civilized  communities,  individual  exceptions 
are  extremely  numerous.  Spanish  and  negro 
wromen  have  wonderfully  soft  and  loving  eyes, 
while  the  cunning  weasel-like  eye  is  common  every- 
where, especially  amongst  Asiatics.  In  high-caste 
Orientals  the  keen,  cunning  look  has  been  refined 
and  exalted  to  an  appearance  of  marvelous  sub- 
tlety— the  finest  expression  of  which  the  black  eye 
is  capable. 

The  blue  eye — all  blues  and  grays  being  here  in- 
cluded— is  par  excellence,  the  eye  of  intellectual 
man:  that  outer  warm-colored  pigment  hanging 
like  a  cloud,  as  it  were,  over  the  brain  absorbs  its 


196         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

most  spiritual  emanations,  so  that  only  when  it  is 
quite  blown  away  are  we  able  to  look  into  the  soul, 
forgetting  man's  kinship  with  the  brutes.  When 
one  is  unaccustomed  to  it  from  always  living  with 
dark-eyed  races,  the  blue  eye  seems  like  an 
anomaly  in  nature,  if  not  a  positive  blunder;  for 
its  power  of  expressing  the  lower  and  commonest 
instincts  and  passions  of  our  race  is  compara- 
tively limited ;  and  in  cases  where  the  higher  facul- 
ties are  undeveloped  it  seems  vacant  and  meaning- 
less. Add  to  this  that  the  ethereal  blue  color  is 
associated  in  the  mind  with  atmospheric  phenom- 
ena rather  than  with  solid  matter,  inorganic  or 
animal.  It  is  the  hue  of  the  void,  expressionless 
sky;  of  shadows  on  far-off  hill  and  cloud;  of  wa- 
ter under  certain  conditions  of  the  atmosphere, 
and  of  the  unsubstantial  summer  haze, — 


whose  margin  fades 
For  ever  and  for  ever  as  I  move. 


In  organic  nature  we  only  find  the  hue  sparsely 
used  in  the  quickly-perishing  flowers  of  some  frail 
plants ;  while  a  few  living  things  of  free  and  buoy- 
ant motions,  like  birds  and  butterflies,  have  been 
touched  on  the  wings  with  the  celestial  tint  only 
to  make  them  more  aerial  in  appearance.  Only 
in  man,  removed  from  the  gross  materialism  of 
nature,  and  in  whom  has  been  developed  the  high- 
est faculties  of  the  mind,  do  we  see  the  full  beauty 
and  significance  of  the  blue  eye — the  eye,  that  is, 


CONCEENING  EYES  197 

without  the  interposing  cloud  of  dark  pigment 
covering  it.  In  the  biography  of  Nathaniel  Haw- 
thorne, the  author  says  of  him:  "His  eyes  were 
large,  dark-blue,  brilliant,  and  full  of  varied  ex- 
pression. Bayard  Taylor  used  to  say  that  they 
were  the  only  eyes  he  ever  knew  to  flash  fire.  .  .  . 
While  he  was  yet  at  college,  an  old  gypsy  woman, 
meeting  him  suddenly  in  a  woodland  path,  gazed 
at  him  and  asked, — 

"  'Are  you  a  man,  or  an  angel?'  " 

I  may  say  here  that  gypsies  are  so  accustomed 
to  concentrate  their  sight  on  the  eyes  of  the  people 
they  meet  that  they  acquire  a  marvelous  profi- 
ciency in  detecting  their  expression;  they  study 
them  with  an  object,  as  my  friend  the  gambler 
studied  the  backs  of  the  cards  he  played  with; 
without  seeing  the  eyes  of  their  intended  dupe 
they  would  be  at  a  loss  what  to  say. 

To  return  to  Hawthorne.  His  wife  says  in  one 
of  her  letters  quoted  in  the  book :  * t  The  flame  of 
his  eyes  consumed  compliment,  cant,  sham,  and 
falsehood;  while  the  most  wretched  sinners — so 
many  of  whom  came  to  confess  to  him — met  in  his 
glance  such  a  pity  and  sympathy  that  they  ceased 
to  be  afraid  of  God  and  began  to  return  to  Him. 
...  7  never  dared  gaze  at  him,  even  I,  unless  his 
lids  were  down." 

I  think  we  have,  most  of  us,  seen  eyes  like  these 
— eyes  which  one  rather  avoids  meeting,  because 
when  met  one  is  startled  by  the  sight  of  a  naked 
human  soul  brought  so  near.  One  person,  at  least, 


198         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

I  have  known  to  whom  the  above  description  would 
apply  in  every  particular;  a  man  whose  intellec- 
tual and  moral  nature  was  of  the  highest  order, 
and  who  perished  at  the  age  of  thirty,  a  martyr 
to  the  cause  of  humanity. 

How  very  strange,  then,  that  savage  man  should 
have  been  endowed  with  this  eye  unsuited  to  ex- 
press the  instincts  and  passions  of  savages,  but 
able  to  express  the  intelligence,  high  moral  feel- 
ings, and  spirituality  which  a  humane  civilization 
was,  long  ages  after,  to  develop  in  his  torpid 
brain!  A  fact  like  this  seems  to  fit  in  with  that 
flattering,  fascinating,  ingenious  hypothesis  in- 
vented by  Wallace  to  account  for  facts  which,  ac- 
cording to  the  theory  of  natural  selection,  ought 
not  to  exist. 

In  answer  to  the  question,  What  is  the  color  of 
the  British  eye?  so  frequently  asked,  and  not  yet 
definitely  settled,  I  wish,  in  conclusion,  to  record 
my  own  observations  here.  I  have  remarked  a 
surprisingly  great  difference  in  the  eyes  of  the 
two  classes  into  which  the  population  is  practically 
divisible — the  well-to-do  class  and  the  poor.  I 
began  my  observations  in  London — there  is  no  bet- 
ter place ;  and  my  simple  plan  was  to  walk  along 
the  most  frequented  streets  and  thoroughfares, 
observing  the  eyes  of  every  person  that  passed 
me.  My  sight  being  good,  even  the  very  brief 
glance,  which  was  all  that  could  be  had  in  most 
cases,  was  sufficient  for  my  purpose;  and  in  this 


CONCERNING  EYES  199 

way  hundreds  of  pairs  of  eyes  could  be  seen  in  the 
course  of  a  day.  In  Cheapside  the  population 
seemed  too  mixed;  but  in  Piccadilly,  and  Bond 
Street,  and  along  Eotten  Row,  during  the  season, 
it  appeared  safe  to  set  down  a  very  large  majority 
of  the  pedestrians  as  belonging  to  the  prosperous 
class.  There  are  other  streets  and  thoroughfares 
in  London  where  very  nearly  all  the  people  seen 
in  it  at  any  time  are  of  the  working  class.  I  also 
frequently  strolled  up  and  down  the  long  streets, 
where  the  poor  do  their  marketing  on  Saturday 
evenings,  and  when,  owing  to  the  slow  rate  of 
progress,  their  features  can  be  easily  studied. 

To  take  the  better  class  first.  I  think  it  would 
puzzle  any  stranger,  walking  in  Piccadilly  or  along 
the  Row  on  a  spring  afternoon,  to  say  what  the 
predominant  color  of  the  English  eye  is,  so  great 
is  the  variety.  Every  shade  of  gray  and  blue, 
from  the  faint  cerulean  of  a  pale  sky,  to  the  ultra- 
marine, called  purple  and  violet,  and  which  looks 
black ;  and  every  type  and  shade  of  the  dark  eye, 
from  the  lightest  hazel  and  the  yellowish  tint  re- 
sembling that  of  the  sheep's  iris,  to  the  deepest 
browns,  and  the  iris  of  liquid  jet  with  ruddy  and 
orange  reflections  in  it — the  tortoiseshell  eye  and 
chief  glory  of  the  negro  woman.  Another  surpris- 
ing fact  was  the  large  proportion  of  fine  eyes.  For 
this  variety  and  excellence  several  explanations 
might  be  given,  not  one  of  which  would  probably 
seem  quite  satisfactory;  I  therefore  leave  the 
reader  to  form  his  own  theory  on  the  subject. 


200         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

In  the  lower  class  no  such  difficulty  appeared. 
Here,  in  a  very  large  majority  of  cases — about 
eighty  per  cent.  I  think — the  eye  was  gray,  or 
gray-blue,  but  seldom  pure.  The  impurity  was 
caused  by  a  small  quantity  of  pigment,  as  I  could 
generally  see  by  looking  closely  at  the  iris,  a  yel- 
lowish tinge  being  visible  round  the  pupil.  My 
conclusion  was,  that  this  impure  gray  eye  is  the 
typical  British  eye  at  the  present  time;  that  it  is 
becoming  pigmented,  and  will  probably,  if  the  race 
endures  long  enough,  become  dark. 


CHAPTEE  Xin 
THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA 

NEAE  the  end  of  Darwin's  famous  narrative  of 
the  voyage  of  the  Beagle  there  is  a  passage 
which,  for  me,  has  a  very  special  interest  and  sig- 
nificance. It  is  as  follows,  and  the  italicization  is 
mine : — * '  In  calling  up  images  of  the  past,  I  find 
the  plains  of  Patagonia  frequently  cross  before  my 
eyes ;  yet  these  plains  are  pronounced  by  all  to  be 
most  wretched  and  useless.  They  are  character- 
ized only  by  negative  possessions ;  without  habita- 
tions, without  water,  without  trees,  without  moun- 
tains, they  support  only  a  few  dwarf  plants.  Why, 
then — and  the  case  is  not  peculiar  to  myself — 
have  these  arid  wastes  taken  so  firm  possession 
of  my  mind?  Why  have  not  the  still  more  level, 
the  greener  and  more  fertile  pampas,  which  are 
serviceable  to  mankind,  produced  an  equal  impres- 
sion 1  I  can  scarcely  analyze  these  feelings,  but  it 
must  be  partly  owing  to  the  free  scope  given  to  the 
imagination.  The  plains  of  Patagonia  are  bound- 
less, for  they  are  scarcely  practicable,  and  hence 
unknown;  they  bear  the  stamp  of  having  thus 
lasted  for  ages,  and  there  appears  no  limit  to  their 
duration  through  future  time.  If,  as  the  ancients 

201 


202         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

supposed,  the  flat  earth  was  surrounded  by  an  im- 
passable breadth  of  water,  or  by  deserts  heated  to 
an  intolerable  excess,  who  would  not  look  at  these 
last  boundaries  to  man 's  knowledge  with  deep  but 
ill-defined  sensations  ? ' ' 

That  he  did  not  in  this  passage  hit  on  the  right 
explanation  of  the  sensations  he  experienced  in 
Patagonia,  and  of  the  strength  of  the  impressions 
it  made  on  his  mind,  I  am  quite  convinced ;  for  the 
thing  is  just  as  true  of  to-day  as  of  the  time,  in 
1836,  when  he  wrote  that  the  case  was  not  peculiar 
to  himself.  Yet  since  that  date — which  now, 
thanks  to  Darwin,  seems  so  remote  to  the  natural- 
ist— those  desolate  regions  have  ceased  to  be  im- 
practicable, and,  although  still  uninhabited  and 
uninhabitable,  except  to  a  few  nomads,  they  are  no 
longer  unknown.  During  the  last  twenty  years 
the  country  has  been  crossed  in  various  directions, 
from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Andes,  and  from  the  Eio 
Negro  to  the  Straits  of  Magellan,  and  has  been 
found  all  barren.  The  mysterious  illusive  city, 
peopled  by  whites,  which  was  long  believed  to 
exist  in  the  unknown  interior,  in  a  valley  called 
Trapalanda,  is  to  moderns  a  myth,  a  mirage  of 
the  mind,  as  little  to  the  traveler's  imagination  as 
the  glittering  capital  of  great  Manoa,  which 
Alonzo  Pizarro  and  his  false  friend  Orellana  failed 
to  discover.  The  traveler  of  to-day  really  expects 
to  see  nothing  more  exciting  than  a  solitary  huan- 
aco  keeping  watch  on  a  hill-top,  and  a  few  gray- 
plumaged  rheas  flying  from  him,  and,  possibly,  a 


i     THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA        203 

band  of  long-haired  roving  savages,  with  their 
faces  painted  black  and  red.  Yet,  in  spite  of  ac- 
curate knowledge,  the  old  charm  still  exists  in  all 
its  freshness;  and  after  all  the  discomforts  and 
sufferings  endured  in  a  desert  cursed  with  eternal 
barrenness,  the  returned  traveler  finds  in  after 
years  that  it  still  keeps  its  hold  on  him,  that  it 
shines  brighter  in  memory,  and  is  dearer  to  him 
than  any  other  region  he  may  have  visited. 

We  know  that  the  more  deeply  our  feelings  are 
moved  by  any  scene  the  more  vivid  and  lasting 
will  its  image  be  in  memory — a  fact  which  ac- 
counts for  the  comparatively  unfading  character 
of  the  images  that  date  back  to  the  period  of  child- 
hood, when  we  are  most  emotional.  Judging  from 
my  own  case,  I  believe  that  we  have  here  the  secret 
of  the  persistence  of  Patagonian  images,  and  their 
frequent  recurrence  in  the  minds  of  many  who 
have  visited  that  gray,  monotonous,  and,  in  one 
sense,  eminently  uninteresting  region.  It  is  not 
the  effect  of  the  unknown,  it  is  not  imagination; 
it  is  that  nature  in  these  desolate  scenes,  for  a 
reason  to  be  guessed  at  by-and-by,  moves  us  more 
deeply  than  in  others.  In  describing  his  rambles 
in  one  of  the  most  desolate  spots  in  Patagonia, 
Darwin  remarks:  "Yet,  in  passing  over  these 
scenes,  without  one  bright  object  near,  an  ill-de- 
fined but  strong  sense  of  pleasure  is  vividly  ex- 
cited." When  I  recall  a  Patagonian  scene,  it 
comes  before  me  so  complete  in  all  its  vast  extent, 
with  all  its  details  so  clearly  outlined,  that,  if  I 


204         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

were  actually  gazing  on  it,  I  could  scarcely  see  it 
more  distinctly;  yet  other  scenes,  even  those  that 
were  beautiful  and  sublime,  with  forest,  and  ocean, 
and  mountain,  and  over  all  the  deep  blue  sky  and 
brilliant  sunshine  of  the  tropics,  appear  no  longer 
distinct  and  entire  in  memory,  and  only  become 
more  broken  and  clouded  if  any  attempt  is  made  to 
regard  them  attentively.  Here  and  there  I  see  a 
wooded  mountain,  a  grove  of  palms,  a  flowery  tree, 
green  waves  dashing  on  a  rocky  shore — nothing 
but  isolated  patches  of  bright  color,  the  parts  of 
the  picture  that  have  not  faded  on  a  great  blurred 
canvas,  or  series  of  canvases.  These  last  are 
images  of  scenes  which  were  looked  on  with  won- 
der and  admiration — feelings  which  the  Patagon- 
ian  wastes  could  not  inspire — but  the  gray,  mo- 
notonous solitude  woke  other  and  deeper  feelings, 
and  in  that  mental  state  the  scene  was  indelibly 
impressed  on  the  mind. 

I  spent  the  greater  part  of  one  winter  at  a  point 
on  the  Kio  Negro,  seventy  or  eighty  miles  from 
the  sea,  where  the  valley  on  my  side  of  the  water 
was  about  five  miles  wide.  The  valley  alone  was 
habitable,  where  there  was  water  for  man  and 
beast,  and  a  thin  soil  producing  grass  and  grain; 
it  is  perfectly  level,  and  ends  abruptly  at  the  foot 
of  the  bank  or  terrace-like  formation  of  the  higher 
barren  plateau.  It  was  my  custom  to  go  out  every 
morning  on  horseback  with  my  gun,  and,  followed 
by  one  dog,  to  ride  away  from  the  valley ;  and  no 
sooner  would  I  climb  the  terrace  and  plunge  into 


THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA        205 

the  gray  universal  thicket,  than  I  would  find  my- 
self as  completely  alone  and  cut  off  from  all  sight 
and  sound  of  human  occupancy  as  if  five  hundred 
instead  of  only  five  miles  separated  me  from  the 
hidden  green  valley  and  river.  So  wild  and  soli- 
tary and  remote  seemed  that  gray  waste,  stretch- 
ing away  into  infinitude,  a  waste  untrodden  by 
man,  and  where  the  wild  animals  are  so  few  that 
they  have  made  no  discoverable  path  in  the  wilder- 
ness of  thorns.  There  I  might  have  dropped  down 
and  died,  and  my  flesh  been  devoured  by  birds,  and 
my  bones  bleached  white  in  sun  and  wind,  and  no 
person  would  have  found  them,  and  it  would  have 
been  forgotten  that  one  had  ridden  forth  in  the 
morning  and  had  not  returned.  Or  if,  like  the  few 
wild  animals  there — puma,  huanaco,  and  hare- 
like  dolichotis,  or  Darwin's  rhea  and  the  crested 
tinamou  among  the  birds — I  had  been  able  to  exist 
without  water,  I  might  have  made  myself  a  hermi- 
tage of  brushwood  or  dug-out  in  the  side  of  a  cliff, 
and  dwelt  there  until  I  had  grown  gray  as  the 
stones  and  trees  around  me,  and  no  human  foot 
would  have  stumbled  on  my  hiding-place. 

Not  once,  nor  twice,  nor  thrice,  but  day  after 
day  I  returned  to  this  solitude,  going  to  it  in  the 
morning  as  if  to  attend  a  festival,  and  leaving  it 
only  when  hunger  and  thirst  and  the  westering  sun 
compelled  me.  And  yet  I  had  no  object  in  going — 
no  motive  which  could  be  put  into  words;  for 
although  I  carried  a  gun,  there  was  nothing  to 
shoot — the  shooting  was  all  left  behind  in  the  val- 


206         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

ley.  Sometimes  a  dolichotis,  starting  up  at  my  ap- 
proach, flashed  for  one  moment  on  my  sight,  to 
vanish  the  next  moment  in  the  continuous  thicket ; 
or  a  covey  of  tinamous  sprang  rocket-like  into  the 
air,  and  fled  away  with  long  wailing  notes  and 
loud  whir  of  wings;  or  on  some  distant  hill-side 
a  bright  patch  of  yellow,  of  a  deer  that  was  watch- 
ing me,  appeared  and  remained  motionless  for 
two  or  three  minutes.  But  the  animals  were  few, 
and  sometimes  I  would  pass  an  entire  day  with- 
out seeing  one  mammal,  and  perhaps  not  more 
than  a  dozen  birds  of  any  size.  The  weather  at 
that  time  was  cheerless,  generally  with  a  gray 
film  of  cloud  spread  over  the  sky,  and  a  bleak 
wind,  often  cold  enough  to  make  my  bridle  hand 
feel  quite  numb.  Moreover,  it  was  not  possible 
to  enjoy  a  canter;  the  bushes  grew  so  close  to- 
gether that  it  was  as  much  as  one  could  do  to 
pass  through  at  a  walk  without  brushing  against 
them;  and  at  this  slow  pace,  which  would  have 
seemed  intolerable  in  other  circumstances,  I  would 
ride  about  for  hours  at  a  stretch.  In  the  scene 
itself  there  was  nothing  to  delight  the  eye.  Every- 
where through  the  light,  gray  mold,  gray  as  ashes 
and  formed  by  the  ashes  of  myriads  of  genera- 
tions of  dead  trees,  where  the  wind  had  blown 
on  it,  or  the  rain  had  washed  it  away,  the  under- 
lying yellow  sand  appeared,  and  the  old  ocean- 
polished  pebbles,  dull  red,  and  gray,  and  green, 
and  yellow.  On  arriving  at  a  hill,  I  would  slowly 
ride  to  its  summit,  and  stand  there  to  survey 


THE   PLAINS    OF   PATAGONIA 


WAKENING    AT    DA\VN 


THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA        207 

the  prospect.  On  every  side  it  stretched  away  in 
great  undulations;  but  the  undulations  were  wild 
and  irregular;  the  hills  were  rounded  and  cone- 
shaped,  they  were  solitary  and  in  groups  and 
ranges;  some  sloped  gently,  others  were  ridge- 
like  and  stretched  away  in  league-long  terraces, 
with  other  terraces  beyond;  and  all  alike  were 
clothed  in  the  gray  everlasting  thorny  vegetation. 
How  gray  it  all  was !  hardly  less  so  near  at  hand 
than  on  the  haze-wrapped  horizon,  where  the  hills 
were  dim  and  the  outline  blurred  by  distance. 
Sometimes  I  would  see  the  large  eagle-like,  white- 
breasted  buzzard,  Buteo  erythronotus,  perched  on 
the  summit  of  a  bush  half  a  mile  away;  and  so 
long  as  it  would  continue  stationed  motionless 
before  me  my  eyes  would  remain  involuntarily 
fixed  on  it,  just  as  one  keeps  his  eyes  on  a  bright 
light  shining  in  the  gloom;  for  the  whiteness  of 
the  hawk  seemed  to  exercise  a  fascinating  power 
on  the  vision,  so  surpassingly  bright  was  it  by 
contrast  in  the  midst  of  that  universal  unrelieved 
grayness.  Descending  from  my  look-out,  I  would 
take  up  my  aimless  wanderings  again,  and  visit 
other  elevations  to  gaze  on  the  same  landscape 
from  another  point;  and  so  on  for  hours,  and 
at  noon  I  would  dismount  and  sit  or  lie  on  my 
folded  poncho  for  an  hour  or  longer.  One  day, 
in  these  rambles,  I  discovered  a  small  grove  com- 
posed of  twenty  to  thirty  trees,  about  eighteen 
feet  high,  and  taller  than  the  surrounding  trees. 
They  were  growing  at  a  convenient  distance 


208          IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

apart,  and  had  evidently  been  resorted  to  by  a 
herd  of  deer  or  other  wild  animals  for  a  very 
long  time,  for  the  boles  were  polished  to  a  glassy 
smoothness  with  much  rubbing,  and  the  ground 
beneath  was  trodden  to  a  floor  of  clean,  loose  yel- 
low sand.  This  grove  was  on  a  hill  differing  in 
shape  from  other  hills  in  its  neighborhood,  so 
that  it  was  easy  for  me  to  find  it  on  other  occa- 
sions ;  and  after  a  time  I  made  a  point  of  finding 
and  using  it  as  a  resting-place  every  day  at  noon. 
I  did  not  ask  myself  why  I  made  choice  of  that 
one  spot,  sometimes  going  miles  out  of  my  way 
to  sit  there,  instead  of  sitting  down  under  any 
one  of  the  millions  of  trees  and  bushes  covering 
the  country,  on  any  other  hillside.  I  thought  noth- 
ing at  all  about  it,  but  acted  unconsciously;  only 
afterwards,  when  revolving  the  subject,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  after  having  rested  there  once,  each 
time  I  wished  to  rest  again  the  wish  came  asso- 
ciated with  the  image  of  that  particular  clump  of 
trees,  with  polished  stems  and  clean  bed  of  sand 
beneath;  and  in  a  short  time  I  formed  a  habit  of 
returning,  animal-like,  to  repose  at  that  same  spot. 
It  was  perhaps  a  mistake  to  say  that  I  would 
sit  down  and  rest,  since  I  was  never  tired :  and  yet 
without  being  tired,  that  noonday  pause,  during 
which  I  sat  for  an  hour  without  moving,  was 
strangely  grateful.  All  day  the  silence  seemed 
grateful,  it  was  very  perfect,  very  profound. 
There  were  no  insects,  and  the  only  bird  sound — 
a  feeble  chirp  of  alarm  emitted  by  a  small  skulking 


THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA        209 

wren-like  species — was  not  heard  oftener  than 
two  or  three  times  an  hour.  The  only  sounds  as 
I  rode  were  the  muffled  hoof-strokes  of  my  horse, 
scratching  of  twigs  against  my  boot  or  saddle-flap, 
and  the  low  panting  of  the  dog.  And  it  seemed 
to  be  a  relief  to  escape  even  from  these  sounds 
when  I  dismounted  and  sat  down:  for  in  a  few 
moments  the  dog  would  stretch  ,his  head  out  on 
his  paws  and  go  to  sleep,  and  then  there  would 
be  no  sound,  not  even  the  rustle  of  a  leaf.  For 
unless  the  wind  blows  strong  there  is  no  flutter- 
ing motion  and  no  whisper  in  the  small  stiff  un- 
deciduous  leaves;  and  the  bushes  stand  unmov- 
ing  as  if  carved  out  of  stone.  One  day  while  lis- 
tening to  the  silence,  it  occurred  to  my  mind  to 
wonder  what  the  effect  would  be  if  I  were  to 
shout  aloud.  This  seemed  at  the  time  a  horrible 
suggestion  of  fancy,  a  "lawless  and  uncertain 
thought"  which  almost  made  me  shudder,  and  I 
was  anxious  to  dismiss  it  quickly  from  my  mind. 
But  during  those  solitary  days  it  was  a  rare  thing 
for  any  thought  to  cross  my  mind;  animal  forms 
did  not  cross  my  vision  or  bird-voices  assail  my 
hearing  more  rarely.  In  that  novel  state  of  mind 
I  was  in,  thought  had  become  impossible.  Else- 
where I  had  always  been  able  to  think  most  freely 
on  horseback;  and  on  the  pampas,  even  in  the 
most  lonely  places,  my  mind  was  always  most  ac- 
tive when  I  traveled  at  a  swinging  gallop.  This 
was  doubtless  habit ;  but  now,  with  a  horse  under 
me,  I  had  become  incapable  of  reflection :  my  mind 


210         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

had  suddenly  transformed  itself  from  a  thinking 
machine  into  a  machine  for  some  other  unknown 
purpose.  To  think  was  like  setting  in  motion  a 
noisy  engine  in  my  brain;  and  there  was  some- 
thing there  which  bade  me  be  still,  and  I  was 
forced  to  obey.  My  state  was  one  of  suspense  and 
watchfulness:  yet  I  had  no  expectation  of  meet- 
ing with  an  adventure,  and  felt  as  free  from  ap- 
prehension as  I  feel  now  when  sitting  in  a  room 
in  London.  The  change  in  me  was  just  as  great 
and  wonderful  as  if  I  had  changed  my  identity 
for  that  of  another  man  or  animal;  but  at  the 
time  I  was  powerless  to  wonder  at  or  speculate 
about  it;  the  state  seemed  familiar  rather  than 
strange,  and  although  accompanied  by  a  strong 
feeling  of  elation,  I  did  not  know  it — did  not  know 
that  something  had  come  between  me  and  my  in- 
tellect— until  I  lost  it  and  returned  to  my  former 
self — to  thinking,  and  the  old  insipid  existence. 

Such  changes  in  us,  however  brief  in  duration 
they  may  be,  and  in  most  cases  they  are  very  brief, 
but  which  so  long  as  they  last  seem  to  affect  us 
down  to  the  very  roots  of  our  being,  and  come  as 
a  great  surprise — a  revelation  of  an  unfamiliar 
and  unsuspected  nature  hidden  under  the  nature 
we  are  conscious  of — can  only  be  attributed  to  an 
instantaneous  reversion  to  the  primitive  and 
wholly  savage  mental  conditions.  Probably  not 
many  men  exist  who  would  be  unable  to  recall 
similar  cases  in  their  own  experience;  but  it 


THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA        211 

quently  happens  that  the  revived  instinct  is  so 
purely  animal  in  character  and  repugnant  to  our 
refined  or  humanitarian  feelings,  that  it  is  sedu- 
lously concealed  and  its  promptings  resisted.  In 
the  military  and  seafaring  vocations,  and  in  lives 
of  travel  and  adventure,  these  sudden  and  sur- 
prising reversions  are  most  frequently  experi- 
enced. The  excitement  affecting  men  going  into 
battle,  which  even  affects  those  who  are  consti- 
tutionally timid  and  will  cause  them  to  exhibit  a 
reckless  daring  and  contempt  of  danger  astonish- 
ing to  themselves,  is  a  familiar  instance.  This 
instinctive  courage  has  been  compared  to  intoxi- 
cation, but  it  does  not,  like  alcohol,  obscure  a 
man's  faculties:  on  the  contrary,  he  is  far  more 
keenly  active  to  everything  going  on  around  him 
than  the  person  who  keeps  perfectly  cool.  The 
man  who  is  coolly  courageous  in  fight  has  his 
faculties  in  their  ordinary  condition:  the  facul- 
ties of  the  man  who  goes  into  battle  inflamed  with 
instinctive,  joyous  excitement  are  sharpened  to  a 
preternatural  keenness.1  When  the  constitution- 
ally timid  man  has  had  an  experience  of  this  kind 
he  looks  back  on  the  day  that  brought  it  to  him 

*In  an  article  on  "Courage,"  by  Lord  Wolseley,  in  the  Fort- 
nightly Review  for  August,  1889,  there  occurs  the  following  pas- 
sage, descriptive  of  the  state  of  mind  experienced  by  men  in 
fight: — "All  maddening  pleasures  seem  to  be  compressed  into 
that  very  short  space  of  time,  and  yet  every  sensation  experienced 
in  those  fleeting  moments  is  so  indelibly  impressed  on  the  brain 
that  not  even  the  most  trifling  incident  is  ever  forgotten  in  after 
life. ' ' 


212         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

as  the  happiest  he  has  known,  one  that  stands  out 
brightly  and  shines  with  a  strange  glory  among 
his  days. 

When  we  are  suddenly  confronted  with  any 
terrible  danger,  the  change  of  nature  we  undergo 
is  equally  great.  In  some  cases  fear  paralyzes 
us,  and,  like  animals,  we  stand  still,  powerless  to 
move  a  step  in  flight,  or  to  lift  a  hand  in  defense 
of  our  lives;  and  sometimes  we  are  seized  with 
panic,  and,  again,  act  more  like  the  inferior  ani- 
mals than  rational  beings.  On  the  other  hand, 
frequently  in  cases  of  sudden  extreme  peril,  which 
cannot  be  escaped  by  flight,  and  must  be  instantly 
faced,  even  the  most  timid  men  at  once,  as  if  by 
miracle,  become  possessed  of  the  necessary  cour- 
age, sharp,  quick  apprehension,  and  swift  de- 
cision. This  is  a  miracle  very  common  in  nature ; 
man  and  the  inferior  animals  alike,  when  con- 
fronted with  almost  certain  death  "  gather  reso- 
lution from  despair.'*  We  are  accustomed  to  call 
this  the  " courage  of  despair";  but  there  can 
really  be  no  trace  of  so  debilitating  a  feeling  in 
the  person  fighting,  or  prepared  to  fight,  for  dear 
life.  At  such  times  the  mind  is  clearer  than  it 
has  ever  been ;  the  nerves  are  steel ;  there  is  noth- 
ing felt  but  a  wonderful  strength  and  fury  and 
daring.  Looking  back  at  certain  perilous  mo- 
ments in  my  own  life,  I  remember  them  with  a 
kind  of  joy;  not  that  there  was  any  joyful  ex- 
citement then,  but  because  they  brought  me  a  new 
experience — a  new  nature,  as  it  were — and  lifted 


THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA        213 

me  for  a  time  above  myself.  And  yet,  comparing 
myself  with  other  men,  I  find  that  on  ordinary 
occasions  my  courage  is  rather  below  than  above 
the  average.  And  probably  this  instinctive  cour- 
age, which  flashes  out  so  brightly  on  occasions,  is 
inherited  by  a  very  large  majority  of  the  male 
children  born  into  the  world ;  only  in  civilized  life 
the  exact  conjuncture  of  circumstances  needed  to 
call  it  into  activity  rarely  occurs. 

In  hunting,  again,  instinctive  impulses  come 
very  much  to  the  surface.  Leech  caricatured  Gal- 
lic ignorance  of  fox-hunting  in  England  when  he 
made  his  French  gentleman  gallop  over  the 
hounds  and  dash  away  to  capture  the  fox  him- 
self ;  but  the  sketch  may  be  also  taken  as  a  comic 
illustration  of  a  feeling  that  exists  in  every  one 
of  us.  If  any  sportsman  among  my  readers  has 
ever  been  confronted  with  some  wild  animal — a 
wild  dog,  a  pig,  or  cat,  let  us  say — when  he  had 
no  firearm  or  other  weapon  to  kill  it  in  the  usual 
civilized  way,  and  has  nevertheless  attacked  it, 
driven  by  a  sudden  uncontrollable  impulse,  with 
a  hunting  knife,  or  anything  that  came  to  hand, 
and  has  succeeded  in  slaying  it,  I  would  ask  such 
a  one  whether  this  victory  did  not  give  him  a 
greater  satisfaction  than  all  his  other  achieve- 
ments in  the  field?  After  it,  all  legitimate  sport 
would  seem  illegitimate,  and  whole  hecatombs  of 
hares  and  pheasants,  and  even  large  animals, 
fallen  before  Ms  gun,  would  only  stir  in  him  a 
feeling  of  disgust  and  self-contempt.  He  would 


214         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

probably  hold  his  tongue  about  a  combat  of  that 
brutal  kind,  but  all  the  same  he  would  gladly 
remember  how  in  some  strange,  unaccountable 
way  he  suddenly  became  possessed  of  the  daring, 
quickness,  and  certitude  necessary  to  hold  his 
wily,  desperate  foe  in  check,  to  escape  its  fangs 
and  claws,  and  finally  to  overcome  it.  Above  all, 
he  would  remember  the  keen  feeling  of  savage 
joy  experienced  in  the  contest.  This  would  make 
all  ordinary  sport  seem  insipid;  to  kill  a  rat  in 
some  natural  way  would  seem  better  to  him  than 
to  murder  elephants  scientifically  from  a  safe  dis- 
tance. The  feeling  occasionally  bursts  out  in  the 
Story  of  My  Heart:  "To  shoot  with  a  gun  is  noth- 
ing. .  .  .  Give  me  an  iron  mace  that  I  may  crush 
the  savage  beast  and  hammer  him  down.  A  spear 
to  thrust  him  through  with,  so  that  I  may  feel  the 
long  blade  enter,  and  the  push  of  the  shaft." 
And  more  in  the  same  strain,  shocking  to  some, 
perhaps,  but  showing  that  gentle  Richard  Jeffe- 
ries  had  in  him  some  of  the  elements  of  a  fine 
barbarian. 

But  it  is  in  childhood  and  boyhood,  when  in- 
stincts are  nearest  to  the  surface,  and  ready  when 
occasion  serves  to  spring  into  activity.  Inherited 
second  nature  is  weakest  then ;  and  habit  has  not 
progressed  far  in  weaving  its  fine  network  of  re- 
straining influences  over  the  primitive  nature. 
The  network  is  continually  being  strengthened  in 
the  individual's  life,  and,  in  the  end  he  is  cased, 
like  the  caterpillar,  in  an  impervious  cocoon ;  only, 


THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA        215 

as  we  have  seen,  there  are  in  life  miraculous  mo- 
ments when  the  cocoon  suddenly  dissolves,  or  be- 
comes transparent,  and  he  is  permitted  to  see  him- 
self in  his  original  nakedness.  The  delight  which 
children  experience  on  entering  woods  and  other 
wild  places  is  very  keen;  and  this  feeling,  al- 
though it  diminishes  as  we  advance  in  life,  re- 
mains with  us  to  the  last.  Equally  great  is  their 
delight  at  finding  wild  fruits,  honey,  and  other 
natural  food;  and  even  when  not  hungry  they 
will  devour  it  with  strange  zest.  They  will  gladly 
feast  on  sour,  acrid  fruits,  which  at  table,  and 
picked  in  the  garden,  would  only  excite  disgust. 
This  instinctive  seeking  for  food,  and  the  delight 
experienced  in  finding  it,  occasionally  comes  up 
in  very  unexpected  and  surprising  ways.  "As 
I  came  through  the  wood,"  says  Thoreau,  "I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  woodchuck  stealing  across 
my  path,  and  felt  a  strange  thrill  of  savage  de- 
light, and  was  strongly  tempted  to  seize  and  de- 
vour him  raw ;  not  that  I  was  hungry  then,  except 
for  the  wildness  which  he  represented." 

In  almost  all  cases — those  in  which  danger  is  en- 
countered and  rage  experienced  being  exceptions 
— the  return  to  an  instinctive  or  primitive  state 
of  mind  is  accompanied  by  this  feeling  of  elation, 
which,  in  the  very  young,  rises  to  an  intense  glad- 
ness, and  sometimes  makes  them  mad  with  joy, 
like  animals  newly  escaped  from  captivity.  And, 
for  a  similar  reason,  the  civilized  life  is  one  of 
continual  repression,  although  it  may  not  seem 


216         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

so  until  a  glimpse  of  nature's  wildness,  a  taste 
of  adventure,  an  accident,  suddenly  makes  it  seem 
unspeakably  irksome;  and  in  that  state  we  feel 
that  our  loss  in  departing  from  nature  exceeds 
our  gain. 

It  was  elation  of  this  kind,  the  feeling  experi- 
enced on  going  back  to  a  mental  condition  we 
have  outgrown,  which  I  had  in  the  Patagonian 
solitude;  for  I  had  undoubtedly  gone  back;  and 
that  state  of  intense  watchfulness,  or  alertness 
rather,  with  suspension  of  the  higher  intellectual 
faculties,  represented  the  mental  state  of  the  pure 
savage.  He  thinks  little,  reasons  little,  having  a 
surer  guide  in  his  instinct;  he  is  in  perfect  har- 
mony with  nature,  and  is  nearly  on  a  level,  men- 
tally, with  the  wild  animals  he  preys  on,  and 
which  in  their  turn  sometimes  prey  on  him.  If 
the  plains  of  Patagonia  affect  a  person  in  this 
way,  even  in  a  much  less  degree  than  in  my  case, 
it  is  not  strange  that  they  impress  themselves  so 
vividly  on  the  mind,  and  remain  fresh  in  memory, 
and  return  frequently;  while  other  scenery,  how- 
ever grand  or  beautiful,  fades  gradually  away, 
and  is  at  last  forgotten.  To  a  slight,  in  most 
cases  probably  a  very  slight,  extent,  all  natural 
sights  and  sounds  affect  us  in  the  same  way ;  but 
the  effect  is  often  transitory,  and  is  gone  with 
the  first  shock  of  pleasure,  to  be  followed  in  some 
cases  by  a  profound  and  mysterious  melancholy. 
The  greenness  of  earth ;  forest  and  river  and  hill ; 
the  blue  haze  and  distant  horizon;  shadows  of 


THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA        217 

clouds  sweeping  over  the  sun-flushed  landscape 
— to  see  it  all  is  like  returning  to  a  home,  which 
is  more  truly  our  home  than  any  habitation  we 
know.  The  cry  of  the  wild  bird  pierces  us  to  the 
heart;  we  have  never  heard  that  cry  before,  and 
it  is  more  familiar  to  us  than  our  mother's  voice. 
"I  heard,"  says  Thoreau,  "a  robin  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  first  I  had  heard  for  many  a  thousand 
years,  methought,  whose  note  I  shall  not  forget 
for  many  a  thousand  more, — the  same  sweet  and 
powerful  song  as  of  yore.  0  the  evening  robin!" 
Hafiz  sings: — 

O  breeze  of  the  morning  blow  me  a  memory  of  the  ancient  time; 
If  after  a  thousand  years  thy  odors  should  float  o'er  my  dust, 
My  bones,  full  of  gladness  uprising,  would  dance  in  the  sepuleher! 

And  we  ourselves  are  the  living  sepulchers  of  a 
dead  past — that  past  which  was  ours  for  so  many 
thousands  of  years  before  this  life  of  the  present 
began;  its  old  bones  are  slumbering  in  us — dead, 
and  yet  not  dead  nor  deaf  to  Nature's  voices;  the 
noisy  burn,  the  roar  of  the  waterfall,  and  thunder 
of  long  waves  on  the  shore,  and  the  sound  of  rain 
and  whispering  winds  in  the  multitudinous  leaves, 
bring  it  a  memory  of  the  ancient  time;  and  the 
bones  rejoice  and  dance  in  their  sepuleher. 

Professor  W.  K.  Parker,  in  his  work  On  Mam- 
malian Descent,  speaking  of  the  hairy  covering  al- 
most universal  in  this  class  of  animals,  says : 
"This  has  become,  as  every  one  knows,  a  custom 
among  the  race  of  men,  and  shows,  at  present,  no 


218         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

sign  of  becoming  obsolete.  Moreover,  that  first 
correlation,  namely,  milk-glands  and  a  hairy  cov- 
ering, appears  to  have  entered  the  very  soul  of 
creatures  of  this  class,  and  to  have  become  psychi- 
cal as  well  as  physical,  for  in  that  type,  which  is 
only  inferior  to  the  angels,  the  fondness  for  this 
kind  of  outer  covering  is  a  strong  and  ineradicable 
passion."  I  am  not  sure  that  this  view  accords 
with  some  facts  in  our  experience,  and  with  some 
instinctive  feelings  which  we  all  have.  Like  Wa- 
terton  I  have  found  that  the  feet  take  very  kindly 
to  the  earth,  however  hot  or  cold  or  rough  it  may 
be,  and  that  shoes,  after  being  left  off  for  a  short 
time,  seem  as  uncomfortable  as  a  mask.  The  face 
is  always  uncovered ;  why  does  the  supposed  cor- 
relation not  apply  to  this  part?  The  face  is  pleas- 
antly warm  when  the  too  delicate  body  shivers 
with  cold  under  its  covering;  and  pleasantly  cool 
when  the  sun  shines  hot  on  us.  When  the  wind 
strikes  us  on  a  hot  day,  or  during  violent  exer- 
cise, the  sensation  to  the  face  is  extremely  agree- 
able, but  far  from  agreeable  to  the  body  where 
the  covering  does  not  allow  the  moisture  to  evapo- 
rate rapidly.  The  umbrella  has  not  entered  the 
soul — not  yet ;  but  it  is  miserable  to  get  wet  in  the 
rain,  yet  pleasant  to  feel  the  rain  on  the  face.  "I 
am  all  face, ' '  the  naked  American  savage  said,  to 
explain  why  he  felt  no  discomfort  from  the  bleak 
wind  which  made  his  civilized  fellow-traveler 
shiver  in  his  furs.  Again,  what  a  relief,  what  a 
pleasure,  to  throw  off  the  clothes  when  occasion 


THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA        219 

permits.  Leigh  Hunt  wrote  an  amusing  paper 
on  the  pleasures  of  going  to  bed,  when  the  legs, 
long  separated  by  unnatural  clothing,  delightedly 
rub  against  and  renew  their  acquaintance  with  one 
another.  Every  one  knows  the  feeling.  If  it  were 
convenient,  and  custom  not  so  tyrannical,  many 
of  us  would  be  glad  to  follow  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin's example,  and  rise  not  to  dress,  but  to  settle 
comfortably  down  to  our  morning's  work,  with 
nothing  on.  When,  for  the  first  time,  in  some  re- 
gion where  nothing  but  a  fig-leaf  has  ' '  entered  the, 
soul,"  we  see  men  and  women  going  about  naked 
and  unashamed,  we  experience  a  slight  shock ;  but 
it  has  more  pleasure  than  pain  in  it,  although  we 
are  reluctant  to  admit  the  pleasure,  probably  be- 
cause we  mistake  the  nature  of  the  feeling.  If, 
after  seeing  them  for  a  few  days  in  their  native 
simplicity,  our  new  friends  appear  before  us1 
clothed,  we  are  shocked  again,  and  this  time  dis- 
agreeably so ;  it  is  like  seeing  those  who  were  free 
and  joyous  yesterday  now  appear  with  fettered 
feet  and  sullen  downcast  faces. 

To  leave  this  question;  what  has  truly  entered 
our  soul  and  become  psychical  is  our  environment 
— that  wild  nature  in  which  and  to  which  we  were 
born  at  an  inconceivably  remote  period,  and  which 
made  us  what  we  are.  It  is  true  that  we  are  emi- 
nently adaptive,  that  we  have  created,  and  exist 
in  some  sort  of  harmony  with  new  conditions, 
widely  different  from  those  to  which  we  were 
originally  adapted;  but  the  old  harmony  was  in- 


220         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

finitely  more  perfect  than  the  new,  and  if  there 
be  such  a  thing  as  historical  memory  in  us,  it  is 
not  strange  that  the  sweetest  moment  in  any  life, 
pleasant  or  dreary,  should  be  when  Nature  draws 
near  to  it,  and,  taking  up  her  neglected  instru- 
ment, plays  a  fragment  of  some  ancient  melody, 
long  unheard  on  the  earth. 

It  might  be  asked :  If  nature  has  at  times  this 
peculiar  effect  on  us,  restoring  instantaneously 
the  old  vanished  harmony  between  organism  and 
environment,  why  should  it  be  experienced  in  a* 
greater  degree  in  the  Patagonian  desert  than  in 
other  solitary  places, — a  desert  which  is  water- 
less, where  animal  voices  are  seldom  heard,  and 
vegetation  is  gray  instead  of  green?  I  can  only 
suggest  a  reason  for  the  effect  being  so  much 
greater  in  my  own  case.  In  sub-tropical  woods 
and  thickets,  and  in  wild  forests  in  temperate  re- 
gions, the  cheerful  verdure  and  bright  colors  of 
flower  and  insects,  if  we  have  acquired  a  habit  of 
looking  closely  at  these  things,  and  the  melody  and 
noises  of  bird-life  engages  the  senses;  there  is 
movement  and  brightness ;  new  forms,  animal  and 
vegetable,  are  continually  appearing,  curiosity 
and  expectation  are  excited,  and  the  mind  is  so 
much  occupied  with  novel  objects  that  the  effect 
of  wild  nature  in  its  entirety  is  minimized.  In 
Patagonia  the  monotony  of  the  plains,  or  expanse 
of  low  hills,  the  universal  unrelieved  grayness  of 
everything,  and  the  absence  of  animal  forms  and 
objects  new  to  the  eye,  leave  the  mind  open  and 


THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA        221 

free  to  receive  an  impression  of  visible  nature  as 
a  whole.  One  gazes  on  the  prospect  as  on  the  sea, 
for  it  stretches  away  sea-like,  without  change,  into 
infinitude;  but  without  the  sparkle  of  water,  the 
changes  of  hue  which  shadows  and  sunlight  and 
nearness  and  distance  give,  and  motion  of  waves 
and  white  flash  of  foam.  It  has  a  look  of  an- 
tiquity, of  desolation,  of  eternal  peace,  of  a  desert 
that  has  been  a  desert  from  of  old  and  will  con- 
tinue a  desert  for  ever ;  and  we  know  that  its  only 
human  inhabitants  are  a  few  wandering  savages, 
who  live  by  hunting  as  their  progenitors  have 
done  for  thousands  of  years.  Again,  in  fertile 
savannahs  and  pampas  there  may  appear  no  signs 
of  human  occupancy,  but  the  traveler  knows  that 
eventually  the  advancing  tide  of  humanity  will 
come  with  its  flocks  and  herds,  and  the  ancient 
silence  and  desolation  will  be  no  more;  and  this 
thought  is  like  human  companionship,  and  miti- 
gates the  effect  of  nature's  wildness  on  the 
spirit.  In  Patagonia  no  such  thought  or  dream 
of  the  approaching  changes  to  be  wrought  by  hu- 
man agency  can  affect  the  mind.  There  is  no 
water  there,  the  arid  soil  is  sand  and  gravel — peb- 
bles rounded  by  the  action  of  ancient  seas,  before 
Europe  was ;  and  nothing  grows  except  the  barren 
things  that  nature  loves — thorns,  and  a  few  woody 
herbs,  and  scattered  tufts  of  wiry  bitter  grass. 
Doubtless  we  are  not  all  affected  in  solitude  by 
wild  nature  in  the  same  degree ;  even  in  the  Pata- 
gonian  wastes  many  would  probably  experience  no 


222         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

such  mental  change  as  I  have  described.  Others 
have  their  instincts  nearer  to  the  surface,  and 
are  moved  deeply  by  nature  in  any  solitary  place ; 
and  I  imagine  that  Thoreau  was  such  a  one.  At 
all  events,  although  he  was  without  the  Darwinian 
lights  which  we  have,  and  these  feelings  were 
always  to  him  "strange,"  "mysterious,"  "unac- 
countable, ' '  he  does  not  conceal  them.  This  is  the 
"something  uncanny  in  Thoreau"  which  seems  in- 
explicable and  startling  to  such  as  have  never  been 
startled  by  nature,  nor  deeply  moved ;  but  which, 
to  others,  imparts  a  peculiarly  delightful  aro- 
matic flavor  to  his  writings.  It  is  his  wish  towards 
a  more  primitive  mode  of  life,  his  strange  aban- 
donment when  he  scours  the  wood  like  a  half- 
starved  hound,  and  no  morsel  could  be  too  sav- 
age for  him;  the  desire  to  take  a  ranker  hold  on 
life  and  live  more  as  the  animals  do ;  the  sympathy 
with  nature  so  keen  that  it  takes  his  breath  away ; 
the  feeling  that  all  the  elements  were  congenial 
to  him,  which  made  the  wildest  scenes  unaccount- 
ably familiar,  so  that  he  came  and  went  with  a 
strange  liberty  in  nature.  Once  only  he  had 
doubts,  and  thought  that  human  companionship 
might  be  essential  to  happiness;  but  he  was  at 
the  same  time  conscious  of  a  slight  insanity  in  the 
mood;  and  he  soon  again  became  sensible  of  the 
sweet  beneficent  society  of  nature,  of  an  infinite 
and  unaccountable  friendliness  all  at  once  like 
an-  atmosphere  sustaining  him. 
In  the  limits  of  a  chapter  it  is  impossible  to  do 


THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA        223 

more  than  touch  the  surface  of  so  large  a  subject 
as  that  of  the  instincts  and  remains  of  instincts 
existing  in  us.  Dr.  Wallace  doubts  that  there  are 
any  human  instincts,  even  in  the  perfect  savage; 
which  seems  strange  in  so  keen  an  observer,  and 
one  who  has  lived  so  much  with  nature  and  un- 
civilized men;  but  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that 
his  peculiar  theories  with  regard  to  man's  origin 
— the  acquisition  of  large  brains,  naked  body,  and 
the  upright  form  not  through  but  in  spite  of  natu- 
ral selection — would  predispose  him  to  take  such  a 
view.  My  own  experience  and  observation  have 
led  me  to  a  contrary  conclusion,  and  my  belief  is 
that  we  might  learn  something  by  looking  more 
beneath  the  hardened  crust  of  custom  into  the  still 
burning  core.  For  instance,  that  experience  I  had 
in  Patagonia — the  novel  state  of  mind  I  have  de- 
scribed— seemed  to  furnish  an  answer  to  a  ques- 
tion frequently  asked  with  regard  to  men  living 
in  a  state  of  nature.  When  we  consider  that  our 
intellect,  ^unlike  that  of  the  inferior  animals,  is 
progressive,  how  wonderful  it  seems  that  commu- 
nities and  tribes  of  men  should  exist — "are  con- 
tented to  exist,"  we  often  say,  just  as  if  they  had 
any  choice  in  the  matter — for  ages  and  for  thou- 
sands of  years  in  a  state  of  pure  barbarism,  living 
from  hand  to  mouth,  exposed  to  extremes  of  tem- 
perature, and  to  frequently-recurring  famine  even 
in  the  midst  of  the  greatest  fertility,  when  a  lit- 
tle foresight — "the  smallest  amount  of  intelli- 
gence possessed  by  the  lowest  of  mankind,"  we 


224         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

say — would  be  sufficient  to  make  their  condition 
immeasurably  better.  If,  in  the  wild  natural  life, 
their  normal  state  is  like  that  into  which  I  tem- 
porarily fell,  then  it  no  longer  appears  strange  to 
me  that  they  take  no  thought  for  the  morrow,  and 
remain  stationary,  and  are  only  a  little  removed 
from  other  mammalians,  their  superiority  in 
this  respect  being  only  sufficient  to  counter- 
balance their  physical  disadvantages.  That  in- 
stinctive state  of  the  human  mind,  when  the 
higher  faculties  appear  to  be  non-existent,  a 
state  of  intense  alertness  and  preparedness, 
which  compels  the  man  to  watch  and  listen 
and  go  silently  and  stealthily,  must  be  like  that  of 
the  lower  animals :  the  brain  is  then  like  a  highly- 
polished  mirror,  in  which  all  visible  nature — every 
hill,  tree,  leaf — is  reflected  with  miraculous  clear- 
ness ;  and  we  can  imagine  that  if  the  animal  could 
think  and  reason,  thought  would  be  superfluous 
and  a  hindrance,  since  it  would  dim  that  bright 
perception  on  which  his  safety  depends. 

That  is  a  part,  the  lesser  part,  of  the  lesson  I 
learnt  in  the  Patagonian  solitude :  the  second 
larger  part  must  be  cut  very  short ;  for  on  all  sides 
it  leads  to  other  questions,  some  of  which  would 
probably  be  thought  "more  curious  than  edify- 
ing." That  hidden  fiery  core  is  nearer  to  us  than 
we  ordinarily  imagine,  and  its  heat  still  permeates 
the  crust  to  keep  us  warm.  This  is,  no  doubt,  a 
matter  of  annoyance  and  even  grief  to  those  who 
grow  impatient  at  Nature's  unconscionable  slow- 


THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA        225 

ness;  who  wish  to  be  altogether  independent  of 
such  an  underlying  brute  energy ;  to  live  on  a  cool 
crust  and  rapidly  grow  angelic.  But,  as  things 
are,  it  is,  perhaps,  better  to  be  still,  for  a  while,  a 
little  lower  than  the  angels:  we  are  hardly  in  a 
position  just  yet  to  dispense  with  the  unangelic 
qualities,  even  in  this  exceedingly  complex  state, 
in  which  we  appear  to  be  so  effectually  ' '  hedged  in 
from  harm."  I  recall  here  an  incident  witnessed 
by  a  friend  of  mine  of  an  Indian  he  and  his  fellow- 
soldiers  were  pursuing  who  might  easily  have 
escaped  unharmed;  but  when  his  one  companion 
was  thrown  to  the  ground  through  his  horse  fall- 
ing, the  first  Indian  turned  deliberately,  sprang 
to  the  earth,  and,  standing  motionless  by  the 
other's  side,  received  the  white  men's  bullets.  Not 
for  love — it  would  be  absurd  to  suppose  such  a 
thing — but  inspired  by  that  fierce  instinctive  spirit 
of  defiance  which  in  some  cases  will  actually  cause 
a  man  to  go  out  of  his  way  to  seek  death.  Why 
are  we,  children  of  light — the  light  which  makes 
us  timid — so  strongly  stirred  by  a  deed  like  this, 
so  useless  and  irrational,  and  feel  an  admiration 
so  great  that  compared  with  it  that  which  is  called 
forth  by  the  noblest  virtue,  or  the  highest  achieve- 
ment of  the  intellect,  seems  like  a  pale  dim  feel- 
ing? It  is  because  in  our  inmost  natures,  our 
deepest  feelings,  we  are  still  one  with  the  savage. 
We  admire  a  Gordon  less  for  his  godlike  quali- 
ties— his  spirituality,  and  crystal  purity  of  heart, 
and  justice,  and  love  of  his  kind — than  for  that 


226         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

more  ancient  nobility,  the  qualities  lie  had  in  com- 
mon with  the  wild  man  of  childish  intellect,  an 
old  Viking,  a  fighting  Colonel  Burnaby,  a  Captain 
Webb  who  madly  flings  his  life  away,  a  vulgar 
Welsh  prizefighter  who  enters  a  den  full  of  growl- 
ing lions,  and  drives  them  before  him  like  fright- 
ened sheep.  It  is  due  to  this  instinctive  savage 
spirit  in  us,  in  spite  of  our  artificial  life  and  all 
we  have  done  to  rid  ourselves  of  an  inconvenient 
heritage,  that  we  are  capable  of  so-called  heroic 
deeds;  of  cheerfully  exposing  ourselves  to  the 
greatest  privations  and  hardships,  suffering  them 
stoically,  and  facing  death  without  blenching,  sac- 
rificing our  lives,  as  we  say,  in  the  cause  of  hu- 
manity, or  geography,  or  some  other  branch  of 
science. 

It  is  related  that  a  late  aged  prime  minister  of 
England  on  one  occasion  stood  for  several  hours 
at  his  sovereign's  side  at  a  reception,  in  an  op- 
pressive atmosphere,  and  suffering  excruciating 
pains  from  a  gouty  foot ;  yet  making  no  sign  and 
concealing  his  anguish  under  a  smiling  counte- 
nance. We  have  been  told  that  this  showed  his 
good  blood :  that  because  he  came  of  a  good  stock, 
and  had  the  training  and  traditional  feelings  of 
a  gentleman,  he  was  able  to  suffer  in  that  calm 
way.  This  pretty  delusion  quickly  vanishes  in  a 
surgical  hospital,  or  on  a  field  covered  with 
wounded  men  after  a  fight.  But  the  savage  always 
endures  pain  more  stoically  than  the  civilized 
man.  He  is 


THE  PLAINS  OF  PATAGONIA        227 

Self-balanced  against  contingencies, 
As  the  trees  and  animals  are. 

However  great  the  sufferings  of  the  gouty  pre- 
mier may  have  been,  they  were  less  than  those 
which  any  Indian  youth  in  Guiana  and  Venezuela 
voluntarily  subjects  himself  to  before  he  ventures 
to  call  himself  a  man,  or  to  ask  for  a  wife.  Small 
in  comparison,  yet  he  did  not  endure  them  smil- 
ingly because  the  traditional  pride  and  other  feel- 
ings of  a  gentleman  made  it  possible  for  him  to 
do  so,  but  because  that  more  ancient  and  nobler 
pride,  the  stern  instinct  of  endurance  of  the  sav- 
age, came  to  his  aid  and  sustained  him. 

These  things  do  not,  or  at  all  events  should  not, 
surprise  us.  They  can  only  surprise  those  who 
are  without  the  virile  instinct,  or  who  have  never 
become  conscious  of  it  on  account  of  the  circum- 
stances of  their  lives.  The  only  wonder  is  that 
the  stern  indomitable  spirit  in  us  should  ever  in 
any  circumstances  fail  a  man,  that  even  on  the 
scaffold  or  with  the  world  against  him  he  should 
be  overcome  by  despair,  and  burst  into  weak  tears 
and  lamentations,  and  faint  in  the  presence  of  his 
fellows.  In  one  of  the  most  eloquent  passages  of 
his  finest  work  Herman  Melville  describes  as  fol- 
lows that  manly  spirit  or  instinct  in  us,  and  the 
effect  produced  on  us  by  the  sight  of  its  failure: 
"Men  may  seem  detestable  as  joint-stock  compa- 
nies and  nations;  knaves,  fools,  and  murderers 
there  may  be;  men  may  have  mean  and  meager 
faces;  but  man,  in  the  ideal,  is  so  noble  and  so 


228         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

sparkling,  such  a  grand  and  glowing  creature,  that 
over  any  ignominious  blemish  in  him  all  his  fel- 
lows should  run  to  throw  their  costliest  robes. 
That  immaculate  manliness  we  feel  in  ourselves — 
so  far  within  us  that  it  remains  intact  though  all 
the  outer  character  seems  gone — bleeds  with  keen- 
est anguish  at  the  spectacle  of  a  valor-ruined 
man.  Nor  can  piety  itself,  at  such  a  shameful 
sight,  completely  stifle  her  upbraidings  against  the 
permitting  stars.  But  this  august  dignity  I  treat 
of,  is  not  the  dignity  of  kings  and  robes,  but  the 
abounding  dignity  which  has  no  robed  investiture. 
Thou  shalt  see  it  shining  in  the  arm  that  wields  a 
pick  and  drives  a  spike;  that  democratic  dignity 
which,  on  all  hands,  radiates  without  end  from 
God  Himself." 

There  is  then  something  to  be  said  in  favor  of 
this  animal  and  primitive  nature  in  us.  Thoreau, 
albeit  so  spiritually-minded,  could  yet  "rever- 
ence" that  lower  nature  in  him  which  made  him 
brother  to  the  brute.  He  experienced  and  fully 
appreciated  its  tonic  effect.  And  until  we  get  a 
better  civilization  more  equal  in  its  ameliorating 
effect  on  all  classes — if  there  must  be  classes— 
and  more  likely  to  endure,  it  is  perhaps  a  fortu- 
nate thing  that  we  have  so  far  failed  to  eliminate 
the  "savage"  in  us — the  "Old  Man"  as  some 
might  prefer  to  call  it.  Not  a  respectable  Old 
Man,  but  a  very  useful  one  occasionally,  when  we 
stand  in  sore  need  of  his  services  and  he  comes 
promptly  and  unsummoned  to  our  aid. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  PERFUME  OF  AN  EVENING 
PRIMROSE 

T  SOMETIMES  walk  in  a  large  garden  where 
*  the  evening  primrose  is  permitted  to  grow, 
but  only  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  ground,  thrust 
away,  as  it  were,  back  against  the  unkept  edge 
with  its  pretty  tangle  of  thorn,  briar,  and  wood- 
bine, to  keep  company  there  with  a  few  straggling 
poppies,  with  hollyhock,  red  and  white  foxglove, 
and  other  coarse  and  weed-like  plants,  all  togeth- 
er forming  a  kind  of  horizon,  dappled  with  color, 
to  the  garden  on  that  side,  a  suitable  background 
to  the  delicate  more  valued  blooms.  It  has  a  neg- 
lected appearance,  its  tall  straggling  stems  insuffi- 
ciently clothed  with  leaves,  leaning  away  from 
contact  with  the  hedge;  a  plant  of  somewhat 
melancholy  aspect,  suggesting  to  a  fanciful  mind 
the  image  of  a  maiden  originally  intended  by  Na- 
ture to  be  her  most  perfect  type  of  grace  and 
ethereal  loveliness,  but  who  soon  out-grew  her 
strength  with  all  beauty  of  form,  and  who  now 
wanders  abroad,  careless  of  appearances,  in  a 
faded  flimsy  garment,  her  fair  yellow  hair  dis- 

229 


230         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

heveled,  her  mournful  eyes  fixed  ever  on  the  earth 
where  she  will  shortly  be. 

I  never  pass  this  weedy,  pale-flowered  alien 
without  stooping  to  thrust  my  nose  into  first  one 
blossom  then  another,  and  still  another,  until  that 
organ,  like  some  industrious  bee,  is  thickly  pow- 
dered with  the  golden  dust.  If,  after  an  interval, 
I  find  myself  once  more  at  the  same  spot,  I  repeat 
this  performance  with  as  much  care  as  if  it  was 
a  kind  of  religious  ceremony  it  would  not  be  safe 
to  omit ;  and  at  all  times  I  am  as  reluctant  to  pass 
without  approaching  my  nose  to  it,  as  the  great 
Dr.  Johnson  was  to  pass  a  street-post  without 
touching  it  with  his  hand.  My  motive,  however, 
is  not  a  superstitious  one,  nor  is  it  merely  one  of 
those  meaningless  habits  which  men  sometimes 
contract,  and  of  which  they  are  scarcely  conscious. 
When  I  first  knew  the  evening  primrose,  where  it 
is  both  a  wild  and  a  garden  flower  and  very  com- 
mon, I  did  not  often  smell  at  it,  but  was  satisfied 
to  inhale  its  subtle  fragrance  from  the  air.  And 
this  reminds  me  that  in  England  it  does  not  per- 
fume the  air  as  it  certainly  does  on  the  pampas  of 
La  Plata,  in  the  early  morning  in  places  where  it 
is  abundant;  here  its  fragrance,  while  unchanged 
in  character,  has  either  become  less  volatile  or  so 
diminished  in  quantity  that  one  is  not  sensible 
that  the  flower  possesses  a  perfume  until  he  ap- 
proaches his  nose  to  it. 

My  sole  motive  in  smelling  the  evening  prim- 
rose is  the  pleasure  it  gives  me.  This  pleasure 


EVENING    PRIMROSE 


PERFUME  OF  AN  EVENING  PRIMROSE  231 

greatly  surpasses  that  which  I  receive  from  other 
flowers  far  more  famous  for  their  fragrance,  for 
it  is  in  a  great  degree  mental,  and  is  due  to  asso- 
ciation. Why  is  this  pleasure  so  vivid,  so  im- 
measurably greater  than  the  mental  pleasure  af- 
forded by  the  sight  of  the  flower?  The  books  tell 
us  that  sight,  the  most  important  of  our  senses, 
is  the  most  intellectual;  while  smell,  the  least  im- 
portant, is  in  man  the  most  emotional  sense.  This 
is  a  very  brief  statement  of  the  fact;  I  will  now 
restate  it  another  way  and  more  fully. 

I  am  now  holding  an  evening  primrose  in  my 
hand.  As  a  fact  at  this  moment  I  am  holding 
nothing  but  the  pen  with  which  I  am  writing  this 
chapter;  but  I  am  supposing  myself  back  in  the 
garden,  and  holding  the  flower  that  first  suggested 
this  train  of  thought.  I  turn  it  about  this  way  and 
that,  and  although  it  pleases  it  does  not  delight, 
does  not  move  me:  certainly  I  do  not  think  very 
highly  of  its  beauty,  although  it  is  beautiful; 
placed  beside  the  rose,  the  fuchsia,  the  azalea,  or 
the  lily,  it  would  not  attract  the  eye.  But  it  is  a 
link  with  the  past,  it  summons  vanished  scenes  to 
my  mind.  I  recognize  that  the  plant  I  plucked  it 
from  possesses  a  good  deal  of  adaptiveness,  a 
quality  one  would  scarcely  suspect  from  seeing  it 
only  in  an  English  garden.  Thus  I  remember  that 
I  first  knew  it  as  a  garden  flower,  that  it  grew 
large,  on  a  large  plant,  as  here;  that  on  summer 
evenings  I  was  accustomed  to  watch  its  slim,  pale, 
yellow  buds  unfold,  and  called  it,  when  speaking  in 


232          IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

Spanish,  by  its  quaint  native  name  of  James  of 
the  night,  and,  in  English,  primrose  simply.  I  re- 
call with  a  smile  that  it  was  a  shock  to  my  child- 
ish mind  to  learn  that  our  primrose  was  not  the 
primrose.  Then,  I  remember,  came  the  time  when 
I  could  ride  out  over  the  plain ;  and  it  surprised  me 
to  discover  that  this  primrose,  unlike  the  four- 
o  'clock  and  morning-glory,  and  other  evening  flow- 
ers in  our  garden,  was  also  a  wild  flower.  I  knew 
it  by  its  unmistakable  perfume,  but  on  those 
plains,  where  the  grass  was  cropped  close,  the 
plant  was  small,  only  a  few  inches  high,  and  the 
flowers  no  bigger  than  buttercups.  Afterwards  I 
met  with  it  again  in  the  swampy  woods  and  ever- 
glades along  the  Plata  Eiver;  and  there  it  grew 
tall  and  rank,  five  or  six  feet  high  in  some  cases, 
with  large  flowers  that  had  only  a  faint  perfume. 
Still  later,  going  on  longer  expeditions,  sometimes 
with  cattle,  I  found  it  in  extraordinary  abundance 
on  the  level  pampas  south  of  the  Salado  River; 
there  it  was  a  tall  slender  plant,  grass-like  among 
the  tall  grasses,  with  wide  open  flowers  about  an 
inch  in  diameter,  and  not  more  than  two  or  three 
on  each  plant.  Finally,  I  remember  that  on  first 
landing  in  Patagonia,  on  a  desert  part  of  the  coast, 
the  time  being  a  little  after  daybreak,  I  became 
conscious  of  the  familiar  perfume  in  the  air,  and, 
looking  about  me,  discovered  a  plant  growing  on 
the  barren  sand  not  many  yards  from  the  sea; 
there  it  grew,  low  and  bush-like  in  form,  with  stiff 


PERFUME  OF  AN  EVENING  PRIMROSE  233 

horizontal  steins  and  a  profusion  of  small  sym- 
metrical flowers. 

All  this  about  the  plant,  and  much  more,  with 
many  scenes  and  events  of  the  past,  are  suggested 
to  my  mind  by  the  flower  in  my  hand;  but  while 
these  scenes  and  events  are  recalled  with  pleasure, 
it  is  a  kind  of  mental  pleasure  that  we  frequently 
experience,  and  very  slight  in  degree.  But  when  I 
approach  the  flower  to  my  face  and  inhale  its  per- 
fume, then  a  shock  of  keen  pleasure  is  experienced, 
and  a  mental  change  so  great  that  it  is  like  a 
miracle.  For  a  space  of  time  so  short  that  if  it 
could  be  measured  it  would  probably  be  found  to 
occupy  no  more  than  a  fraction  of  a  second,  I  am 
no  longer  in  an  English  garden  recalling  and  con- 
sciously thinking  about  that  vanished  past,  but 
during  that  brief  moment  time  and  space  seem 
annihilated  and  the  past  is  now.  I  am  again  on 
the  grassy  pampas,  where  I  have  been  sleeping 
very  soundly  under  the  stars, — would  that  I  could 
now  sleep  as  soundly  under  a  roof!  It  is  the 
moment  of  wakening,  when  my  eyes  are  just  open- 
ing to  the  pure  over-arching  sky,  flushed  in  its 
eastern  half  with  tender  color ;  and  at  the  moment 
that  nature  thus  reveals  itself  to  my  vision  in  its 
exquisite  morning  beauty  and  freshness,  I  am 
sensible  of  the  subtle  primrose  perfume  in  the  air. 
The  blossoms  are  all  about  me,  for  miles  and  for 
leagues  on  that  great  level  expanse,  as  if  the 
morning  wind  had  blown  them  out  of  that  eastern 


234         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

sky  and  scattered  their  pale  yellow  stars  in  mil- 
lions over  the  surface  of  the  tall  sere  grass. 

I  do  not  say  that  this  shock  of  pleasure  I  have 
described,  this  vivid  reproduction  of  a  long  past 
scene,  is  experienced  each  time  I  smell  the  flower ; 
it  is  experienced  fully  only  at  long  intervals,  after 
weeks  and  months,  when  the  fragrance  is,  so  to 
speak,  new  to  me,  and  afterwards  in  a  lesser  de- 
gree on  each  repetition,  until  the  feeling  is  ex- 
hausted. If  I  continue  to  smell  again  and  again 
at  the  flower,  I  do  it  only  as  a  spur  to  memory; 
or  in  a  mechanical  way,  just  as  a  person  might 
always  walk  along  a  certain  path  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground,  remembering  that  he  once 
on  a  time  dropped  some  valuable  article  there, 
and  although  he  knows  that  it  was  lost  irrecover- 
ably, he  still  searches  the  ground  for  it. 

Other  vegetable  odors  affect  me  in  a  similar 
way,  but  in  a  very  much  fainter  degree,  except  in 
one  or  two  cases.  Thus,  the  Lombardy  poplar  was 
one  of  the  trees  I  first  became  acquainted  with  in 
childhood,  and  it  has  ever  since  been  a  pleasure 
to  me  to  see  it;  but  in  spring,  when  its  newly 
opened  leaves  give  out  their  peculiar  aroma,  for 
a  moment,  when  I  first  smell  it,  I  am  actually  a 
boy  again,  among  the  tall  poplar  trees,  their  my- 
riads of  heart-shaped  leaves  rustling  to  the  hot 
November  wind,  and  sparkling  like  silver  in  the 
brilliant  sunshine.  More  than  that,  I  am  in  that 
visionary  moment,  clinging  fast  to  the  slim  verti- 
cal branches,  high  above  the  earth,  forty  or  fifty 


PERFUME  OF  AN  EVENING  PEIMROSE  235 

feet  perhaps ;  and  just  where  I  have  ceased  from 
climbing,  in  the  cleft  of  a  branch  and  against  the 
white  bark,  I  see  the  dainty  little  cup-shaped  nest 
I  have  been  seeking ;  and  round  my  head,  as  I  gaze 
down  in  it,  delighted  at  the  sight  of  the  small 
pearly  eggs  it  contains,  flutter  the  black-headed, 
golden-winged  siskins,  uttering  their  long  canary- 
like  notes  of  solicitude.  It  all  comes  and  goes  like 
a  flash  of  lightning,  but  the  scene  revealed,  and  the 
accompanying  feeling,  the  complete  recovery  of  a 
lost  sensation,  are  wonderfully  real.  Nothing  that 
we  see  or  hear  can  thus  restore  the  past.  The 
sight  of  the  poplar  tree,  the  sound  made  by  the 
wind  in  its  summer  foliage,  the  song  of  the  golden- 
winged  siskins  when  I  meet  with  them  in  captivity, 
bring  up  many  past  scenes  to  my  mind,  and  among 
others  the  picture  I  have  described;  but  it  is  a 
picture  only,  until  the  fragrance  of  the  poplar 
touches  the  nerve  of  smell,  and  then  it  is  some- 
thing more. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  my  experience  is  similar  to 
that  of  others,  especially  of  those  who  have  lived 
a  rural  life,  and  whose  senses  have  been  trained 
by  an  early-acquired  habit  of  attention.  When 
we  read  of  Cuvier  (and  the  same  thing  has  been 
recorded  of  others),  that  the  scent  of  some  humble 
flower  or  weed,  familiar  to  him  in  boyhood,  would 
always  affect  him  to  tears,  I  presume  that  the 
poignant  feeling  of  grief — grief,  that  is,  for  the 
loss  of  a  vanished  happiness — which  ended  in 
tears,  succeeded  to  some  such  vivid  representation 


236         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

of  the  past  as  I  have  described,  and  to  the  purely 
delightful  recovery  of  a  vanished  sensation.  Not 
only  flowery  and  aromatic  odors  can  produce  this 
powerful  effect;  it  is  caused  by  any  smell,  not 
positively  disagreeable,  which  may  be  in  any  way 
associated  with  a  happy  period  in  early  or  past 
life:  the  smell,  for  instance,  of  peat  smoke,  of  a 
brewery,  a  tan  yard,  of  cattle  and  sheep,  and 
sheep-folds,  of  burning  weeds,  brushwood,  and 
charcoal ;  the  dank  smell  of  marshes,  and  the  smell, 
''ancient  and  fish-like,"  that  clings  about  many 
seaside  towns  and  villages;  also  the  smell  of  the 
sea  itself,  and  of  decaying  seaweed,  and  the  dusty 
smell  of  rain  in  summer,  and  the  smell  of  new 
mown  hay,  and  of  stables  and  of  freshly-ploughed 
ground,  with  so  many  others  tfeat  every  reader 
can  add  to  the  list  from  his  own  experience.  Be- 
ing so  common  a  thing,  it  may  be  thought  that  I 
have  dwelt  too  long  on  it.  My  excuse  must  be 
that  some  things  are  common  without  being 
familiar ;  also  that  some  common  things  have  not 
yet  been  explained. 

Locke  somewhere  says  that  unless  we  refresh 
ouiVdfiental  pictures  of  what  we  have  seen  by  look- 
ing again  at  their  originals,  they  fade,  and  in  the 
end  are  lost.  Bain  appears  to  have  the  same  opin- 
ion, at  all  events  he  says :  ' '  The  simplest  impres- 
sion that  can  be  made,  of  taste,  smell,  touch,  hear- 
ing, sight,  needs  repetition  in  order  to  endure 
of  its  own  accord."  Probably  it  is  a  fact  that 
when  any  scene,  not  yet  lost  by  the  memory,  a 


PERFUME  OF  AN  EVENING  PEIMEOSE   237 

house,  let  us  say,  is  looked  at  again  after  a  long 
interval,  it  does  not,  unless  seen  in  a  new  setting, 
create  a  new  image  distinct  from  the  old  and 
faded  one,  but  covers  the  former  image,  so  to 
speak,  the  preexistent  picture,  and  may  therefore, 
be  said  to  freshen  it.  Most  of  the  impressions  we 
receive  are  no  doubt  very  transitory,  but  it  is  cer- 
tainly an  error  that  all  our  mental  pictures,  not 
freshened  in  the  way  described,  fade  and  disap- 
pear, since  it  is  in  the  experience  of  every  one 
of  us  that  many  mental  pictures  of  scenes  looked 
at  once  only,  and  in  some  cases  only  for  a  few 
moments,  remain  persistently  in  the  mind.  But 
the  remembered  scenes  or  objects  do  not  present 
themselves  to  the  mental  eye  perfect  and  in  their 
first  vivid  colors,  except  on  very  rare  occasions; 
they  are  like  certain  old  paintings  that  always 
look  dark  and  obscured  until  a  wet  sponge  is 
passed  over  them,  whereupon  for  a  short  time 
they  recover  their  clearness  of  outline  and  bril- 
liancy of  color.  In  recalling  the  past,  emotion 
plays  the  part  of  the  wet  sponge,  and  it  is  excited 
most  powerfully  in  us  when  we  encounter,  after  a 
long  interval,  some  once  familiar  odor  associated 
in  some  way  with  the  picture  recalled.  But\  why? 
Not  finding  an  answer  in  the  books,  I  am  compelled 
to  seek  for  one,  true  or  false,  in  the  wild&rness  of 
my  own  mind. 

The  reason,  I  imagine,  is  that  while  smells  are 
so  much  to  us  they  cannot,  like  things  seen  and 
things  heard,  be  reproduced  in  the  mind,  but  are 


238         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

at  once  forgotten.  It  is  true  that  in  the  books 
smell  is  classified  along  with  taste,  as  being  much 
lower  or  less  intellectual  than  sight  and  hearing, 
for  the  reason  (scarcely  a  valid  one)  that  there 
must  be  actual  contact  of  the  organ  of  smell  with 
the  object  smelt,  or  a  material  emanation  from, 
and  portion  of,  such  object,  although  the  object 
itself  might  be  miles  away  beyond  the  sight  or 
even  beyond  the  horizon.  The  light  of  nature  is 
enough  to  show  how  false  the  arrangement  is  that 
places  smell  and  taste  together,  as  much  lower 
and  widely  apart  from  sight  and  hearing.  Bather 
the  extreme  delicacy  of  the  olfactory  nerve,  raises 
smell  to  the  rank  of  an  intellectual  sense,  but  very 
little  below  the  two  first  and  higher  senses.  And 
yet,  while  sights  and  sounds  are  retained  and  can 
be  reproduced  at  will,  and  their  phantasms  are 
like  the  reality,  an  odor  has  no  phantasm  in  the 
brain;  or,  to  be  very  exact,  the  phantasm  of  an 
odor,  or  its  presentment  or  representation,  is  so 
faint  and  quickly  gone  when  any  effort  is  made  to 
recover  it,  that,  compared  with  the  distinct  and 
abiding  presentments  of  sights  and  sounds,  it  is 
as  nothing.  Imagine,  for  example,  that  you  had 
often  seen  Windsor  Castle,  and  knew  a  great  deal 
about  it,  its  history,  its  noble  appearance,  which 
will  look  familiar  to  you  when  you  see  it  again  and 
affect  you  pleasantly  as  in  the  past ;  and  that  yet 
you  could  not  see  it  with  the  mind's  eye,  but  that 
when,  after  a  recent  visit,  you  tried  to  see  it  men- 
tally, nothing  but  a  formless,  dim,  whitish  patch 


PERFUME  OF  AN  EVENING  PEIMEOSE  239 

appeared,  only  to  disappear  in  an  instant  and 
come  no  more.  Such  a  case  would  represent  our 
condition  with  regard  to  even  the  strongest  and 
most  familiar  smells.  Yet  in  spite  of  our  inability 
to  recall  them,  we  do  distinctly  make  the  effort; 
and  in  the  case  of  some  strong  odor  which  we  have 
recently  inhaled  the  mind  mocks  us  with  this  faint 
shadow  of  a  phantasm;  and  this  vain,  or  almost 
vain,  effort  of  the  mind,  seems  to  show  that  odors 
in  some  past  period  of  our  history  were  so  much 
more  to  us  than  they  are  now  that  they  could  be 
vividly  reproduced,  and  that  this  power  has  been 
lost,  or,  at  all  events,  is  so  weakened  as  to  be  of 
no  use. 

I  find  that  Bain,  who  makes  different  and  contra- 
dictory statements  on  this  subject  in  his  work  on 
the  Senses  and  the  Intellect,  has  the  following  sen- 
tence, with  which  I  agree :  ' '  By  a  great  effort  of 
the  mind,  we  may  approach  very  near  to  the  re- 
covery of  a  smell  that  we  have  been  extremely 
familiar  with,  as,  for  example,  the  odor  of  coffee, 
and  if  we  were  more  dependent  on  ideas  of  smell, 
we  might  succeed  much  better. ' '  A  very  big  if,  by 
the  way;  but  it  is  probable  that  some  savages,  and 
some  individuals  among  us  that  have  a  very  acute 
sense  of  smell,  do  succeed  much  better.  This-^sense 
being  so  much  more  to  dogs  than  to  man,  it  is  not 
strange  that  they  remember  smells  rather  than 
sights,  and  can  reproduce  the  sensation  of  smells, 
as  their  twitching  and  sniffing  noses  when  they 
dream  seem  to  show. 


240         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

This  approach  in  ourselves  to  the  recovery  of  a 
strong  or  familiar  smell,  this  dim  white  patch,  to 
speak  in  metaphor,  the  ghost  of  a  phantasm  of  a 
smell,  seems  to  have  misled  the  philosophers  into 
the  idea  that  we  can  mentally  reproduce  odors. 
Bain,  as  1  have  said,  contradicts  himself,  and 
therefore,  excepting  in  the  sentence  I  have  quoted, 
must  be  put  down  among  those  who  are  against 
me;  and  with  him  a*e  McCosh,  Bastian,  Luys, 
Ferrier,  and  others  wh-o  write  on  the  brain  and  the 
mind.  Do  they  copy  from  each  other !  It  is  very 
odd  that  they  all  tell  us  that  we  know  very  little 
about  the  sense  of  smell,  and  prove  it  by  affirming 
that  we  can  recall  the  sensations  produced  by 
odors,  in  some  cases  quoting  the  poet : 

Odozfs,  -when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

I  was  seriously  alarmed  at  the  beginning  of  this 
inquiry  by  reading  in  McCosh,  "When  the  organs 
of  taste  and  smell,  supposed  by  Ferrier  to  be  at 
the  back  of  the  head,  are  diseased  or  out  of  order, 
the  reproduction  of  the  corresponding  sensations 
may  be  indistinct."  So  indistinct  was  the  repro- 
duction in  my  own  case,  even  of  the  smell  of  coffee, 
that  after  reading  this  passage  I  began  to  fear 
that  my  own  brain  had  misled  me,  and  so,  to  sat- 
isfy myself  on  the  point,  I  consulted  others,  friends 
and  acquaintances,  who  all  began  trying  to  recall 
the  sensations  produced  on  them  by  the  odors  they 
were  most  familiar  with.  The  result  of  their 


PEEFUME  OF  AN  EVENING  PRIMROSE    241 

efforts  has  restored  my  peace  of  mind.  With  the 
exception  of  two  or  three  ladies,  who,  having  no 
male  relations  to  make  up  their  minds  for  them, 
profess  to  be  still  in  doubt,  all  sadly  acknowledged 
that  they  find  themselves  poorer  by  one  faculty 
than  they  had  supposed  themselves  to  be;  that 
they  began  trying  to  recall  smells  in  the  belief  that 
they  had  the  power;  that  they  found  that  they 
could  almost  do  it,  then  began  to  doubt,  and  finally 
with  a  feeling  of  impotence,  of  being  baffled,  gave 
it  up. 

A  simple  mental  experiment  may  serve  to  con- 
vince any  person  who  tries  it  that  the  sensations 
of  smell  do  not  reproduce  themselves  in  the  mind. 
We  think  of  a  rose,  or  a  lily,  or  a  violet,  and  a 
feeling  of  pleasure  attends  the  thought;  but  that 
this  feeling  is  caused  solely  by  the  image  of  some- 
thing beautiful  to  the  eye  becomes  evident  when 
we  proceed  to  think  of  some  artificial  perfume,  or 
extract,  or  essence  of  a  flower.  The  extract,  we 
know,  gave  us  far  more  pleasure  than  the  slight 
perfume  of  the  flower,  but  there  is  no  feeling  of 
pleasure  in  thinking  of  it :  it  is  nothing  more  than 
an  idea  in  the  mind.  On  the  other  hand,  when  we 
remember  some  extremely  painful  scene  that  we 
have  witnessed,  or  some  sound,  expressing  Dis- 
tress or  anguish,  that  we  have  heard,  something 
of  the  distressed  feeling  experienced  at  the  time  is 
reproduced  in  us ;  and  it  is  common  to  hear  people 
say,  It  makes  me  sad,  or  makes  me  dizzy,  or  makes 
my  blood  run  cold,  when  I  think  of  it;  which  is 


242         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

literally  true,  because  in  thinking  of  it  they  again 
(in  a  sense)  see  and  hear  it.  But  to  think  of  evil 
odors  does  not  affect  us  at  all:  we  can,  in  imagi- 
nation, uncork  and  sniff  at  cans  of  petroleum  and 
saturate  our  pocket-handkerchiefs  with  assafcetida 
or  carbolic  acid,  or  walk  behind  a  dust-cart,  or 
wade  through  miles  of  fetid  slime  in  some  tropical 
morass,  or  take  up  some  mephitic  animal,  like 
the  skunk,  and  fondle  it  as  we  would  a  kitten,  yet 
experience  no  pain,  and  no  sensation  of  nausea. 
We  can,  if  we  like,  call  up  all  the  sweet  and  abom- 
inable smells  in  nature,  just  as  Owen  Glendower 
called  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep,  but,  like  the 
spirits,  they  refuse  to  come ;  or  they  come  not  as 
smells  but  as  ideas,  so  that  phosphuretted  hydro- 
gen causes  no  pain,  and  frangipani  no  pleasure. 
We  only  know  that  smells  exist;  that  we  have 
roughly  classified  them  as  fragrant,  aromatic, 
fresh,  ethereal,  stimulating,  acrid,  nauseous,  and 
virulent ;  that  each  of  these  generic  names  includes 
a  very  large  number  of  distinct  odors:  we  know 
them  all  because  the  mind  has  taken  note  of  the 
distinct  character  of  each,  and  of  its  effect  on  us, 
not  because  it  has  registered  a  sensation  in  our 
brain  to  be  reproduced  at  will,  as  in  the  case  of 
something  we  have  seen  or  heard. 

It  is  true  that  we  are  equally  powerless  to  recall 
tastes.  Bain  admits  that  "these  sensations  are 
deficient  as  regards  the  power  of  being  remem- 
bered"; but  he  did  not  discover  the  fact  himself, 
nor  does  he  verify  it  from  his  own  experience, 


PERFUME  OF  AN  EVENING  PEIMEOSE  243 

merely  telling  us  that  "Longet  observes."  But 
taste  is  not  an  emotional  sense.  I  know,  for  in- 
stance, that  if  I  were  to  partake  of  some  once 
familiar,  long  untasted  dish,  flavored,  let  me  say, 
with  some  such  abomination  (to  the  English  pal- 
ate) as  cummin-seed  or  garlic;  some  vegetable,  or 
fruit,  wild  or  cultivated,  that  I  never  see  in  Eng- 
land, it  would  not  move  me  as  I  am  moved  by  an 
odor,  and  would  perhaps  give  me  less  pleasure 
than  a  dish  of  strawberries  and  cream.  For  in 
the  flavor  there  is  obvious  contact  with  the  organ 
of  taste;  it  is  gross  and  inseparable  from  the 
thing  eaten  to  supply  a  bodily  want,  and  gives  a 
momentary  and  purely  animal  gratification ;  there- 
fore to  the  mind  it  is  not  in  the  same  category,  but 
very  much  lower  than  that  invisible,  immaterial 
something  that  flies  to  us,  not  to  give  a  sensuous 
pleasure  only,  but  also  to  lead,  to  warn,  to  instruct, 
and  call  up  before  the  mental  eye  bright  images 
of  things  unseen.  Consequently  our  inability  to 
recall  past  flavors  is  not  felt  as  a  loss,  and  no  ef- 
fort is  made  to  recover  them;  they  are  lost  and 
were  not  worth  keeping. 

This,  then,  to  my  mind,  is  the  reason  that  smell 
is  an  emotional  sense  in  so  great  a  degree,  com- 
pared with  the  other  senses, — namely,  because, 
like  sight  and  hearing,  it  is  an  intellectual  sense, 
and  because,  unlike  sight  and  hearing,  its  sensa- 
tions are  forgotten ;  and  when  after  a  long  inter- 
val a  forgotten  odor,  once  familiar  and  associated 
intimately  with  the  past,  is  again  encountered,  the 


244         IDLE  DAYS  IN  PATAGONIA 

sudden,  unexpected  recovery  of  a  lost  sensation 
affects  us  in  some  such  way  as  the  accidental  dis- 
covery of  a  store  of  gold,  hidden  away  by  our- 
selves in  some  past  period  of  our  life  and  forgot- 
ten ;  or  as  it  would  affect  us  to  be  met  face  to  face 
by  some  dear  friend,  long  absent  and  supposed  to 
be  dead.  The  suddenly  recovered  sensation  is 
more  to  us  for  a  moment  than  a  mere  sensation; 
it  is  like  a  recovery  of  the  irrecoverable  past.  We 
are  not  moved  in  this  way,  or  at  all  events  not 
nearly  in  the  same  degree,  by  seeing  objects  or 
hearing  sounds  that  are  associated  with  and  re- 
call past  scenes,  simply  because  the  old  familiar 
sights  and  sounds  have  never  been  forgotten; 
their  phantasms  have  always  existed  in  the  brain. 
If,  for  instance,  I  hear  a  bird's  note  that  I  have 
not  heard  for  the  last  twenty  years,  it  is  not  as  if 
I  had  not  really  heard  it,  since  I  have  listened  to 
it  mentally  a  thousand  times  during  the  interval, 
and  it  does  not  surprise  or  come  to  me  like  some- 
thing that  was  lost  and  is  recovered,  and  conse- 
quently does  not  move  me.  And  so  with  the  sen- 
sation of  sight;  I  cannot  think  of  any  fragrant 
flower  that  grows  in  my  distant  home  without  see- 
ing it,  so  that  its  beauty  may  always  be  enjoyed; 
— but  its  fragrance,  alas,  has  vanished  and  returns 
not! 


INDEX 


ALBINISM,  Herman  Melville  on, 
112;  why  we  are  unpleasant- 
ly affected  by,  112,  113. 

Animism,  Dr.  Tylor  on,  116. 

Anumbius  acuticaudatus,  nest- 
building  habits  of,  10. 

Apple  Country,  105. 

Armadilloes,  11,  13;  bones  of, 
37;  defective  sight  of,  177. 

Arrow-heads,  Paleolithic  and 
Neolithic,  38 ;  highly-fin- 
ished, 39. 

Asturina  pucherani,  a  white- 
eyed  hawk,  180. 

Azara,  Felix  de,  on  song  birds 
in  Paraguay,  152,  155. 

BACON,  on  embroidery,  51. 

Bain,  on  duration  of  sense-im- 
pressions, 236,  239,  242. 

Bates,  on  bird  music  in  South 
America,  148;  on  Cypho- 
rhinus  cantans,  154. 

Bird  music,  in  Patagonia,  141; 
in  South  America,  141-157; 
difficult  to  describe,  142-145; 
aerial  character  of,  146-152. 

Birds,  song,  number  of  species 
in  South  America,  150. 

Blackbird,  Argentine  (Turdus 
fuscater),  150. 

Brazilians,  attack  on  El  Car- 
men by,  91-95. 

Broca,  Dr.  Paul,  classification 
of  eyes,  190-191. 

Bubo  magellanicus,  see  Owl. 

Buffon,  a  fancy  of,  42;  on 
American  song  birds,  151. 

Burroughs,  Mr.  John,  on  Brit- 
ish and  American  song  birds, 
147. 


Buteo    erythronotus,    conspicu- 

ousness  of,  207. 
Buzzard,  white-breasted,  207. 

CACHALOTE,  10. 

Cacti,  fruit  of,  47. 

Calandria  mocking-bird  (Mi- 
mus  modulator),  song  of, 
141-143. 

Calodromus  elegans,  voice  and 
habits  of,  129-131. 

Carancho,  169. 

Carmen  de  Patagones,  20;  at- 
tacked by  a  Brazilian  force, 
91-98. 

Carrion-hawk  (Milvago  chi- 
mango),  25. 

Carter,  Dr.  Brudenell,  on  weak 
sight  in  civilized  man, 
176. 

Cathartes  atratus,  49. 

Cavia  australis,  bones  of,  37. 

Chanar  tree,  15;  fruit  of,  47; 
flowers  of,  48. 

Chi-chi,  103. 

Children  in  Patagonia,  45. 

Chloephaga  magellanica,  77. 

Chrysomitris  magellanica,  see 
Siskin. 

Colley-dog,  character  of,  57,  58. 

Columba  maculosa,  depreda- 
tions of,  77;  song,  121. 

Condalia  spinosa,  fruit  of,  47. 

Condor,  53. 

Conspicuousness,  effects  of,  113. 

Coots,  wheat  destroyed  by,  76. 

Courage,   instinct  of,  211-213. 

Cow  and  pigs,  friendship  be- 
tween, 54,  55. 

Coypu  (Myiopotamus  coypu), 
bones  of,  37. 


245 


246 


INDEX 


Craspedocephalus       alternatus, 

26. 
Ctenomys    magellanica,     bones 

of,  38;  habits  of,  127-129. 
Cusar-leofu,  34. 
Cuvier,  effect  of  some  odors  on, 

235. 
Cyphorhinus  cantans,  Bates  on, 

154. 

DAFILA  SPINACAUDA,  depreda- 
tions of,  77. 

Darwin,  on  Craspedocephalus 
alternatus,  27 ;  on  resem- 
blance of  animals  to  man, 
27;  on  singing  birds  in 
South  America,  141,  152;  on 
how  the  mind  is  affected  by 
Patagonian  scenery,  201. 

Dasypus  minutus,  11. 

Deer,  bones  of,  37;  distant 
sight  of,  206. 

Dendrocolaptid*,  9. 

Diuca  minor,  morning  song  of, 
15,  122. 

Dog,  native,  character  of,  57, 
58. 

Dogs,  anecdotes  of,  57-71. 

Dolichotes  patagonica,  bones 
of,  37;  observed  watching 
me,  139;  seen  on  the  uplands, 
205. 

D'Orbigny,  on  the  flute-bird's 
song,  153. 

Duck,  brown  pintail,  77. 

Dunes,  5,  12,  13. 

EARTHQUAKE,  shock  of,  experi- 
enced at  El  Carmen,  97. 

CEcodoma  ants,  habits  of,  133- 
138. 

Embernagra  platensis,  see  Red- 
billed  finch. 

Escandalosa  plant,  137. 

Evening  primrose,  7 ;  fragrance 
of,  220 ;  adaptiveness  of,  232. 

Eyes,  abnormal  color  in,  158; 
color  of  in  birds,  179:  color 
of  in  men,  182;  individual 


variations  in,  182;  luminous, 
183;  owls',  184;  green,  189; 
Broca's  table  of  colors  of, 
190;  brown,  195;  blue,  195; 
British,  198-200. 

FALCO  SPABVEBIUS,  nesting  in 
cliffs,  132,  133. 

Felis  geoffroyi,  49. 

Firewood-gatherer,    10. 

Flamingo,  shooting  a,  63,  64. 

Flute-bird,  song  of,  159. 

Fontana,  Dr.  G.,  on  Indians  of 
the  Pampas  and  Gran  Chaco, 
171. 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  a  charac- 
teristic of,  219. 

GAUCHO    with    abnormal   eyes. 

158. 
Gauchos,   dislike  to    spectacles 

of,  160. 
Germans,  weakness  of  sight  in, 

174. 

Gould,    his   collection   of  hum- 
ming-birds, 180. 
Greyhounds,   hunting   on  their 

own  account,  58,  59. 
Gums,  edible,  46;  chewing,  124- 

126. 
Gurliaca   decorticans,   see 

Chanar. 

HAWTHORNE,  NATHANIEL,  eyes 
of,  197. 

Homorus  gutturalis,  habits  of, 
10. 

Huanaco,  bones  of,  38. 

Humboldt.  on  eyesight  in  sav- 
ages, 168,  176. 

Hunt,  Leigh,  on  the  pleasure 
of  going  to  bed,  218. 

Hunting,  instinct  of,  213. 

ICTERIOE,  150. 

Incas,  the,  rainbow-worship- 
ers, 52;  knowledge  of  na- 
ture's laws  of,  135. 

Indian  remains,   37-42. 


INDEX 


247 


Indian  burial  places,  41. 

Indians,  life  among  the,  98- 
107;  eyesight  of,  167-169; 
life-conditions  of  the,  170; 
Fontana  on,  177;  Pelleschi 
on,  176;  instinctive  courage, 
226 ;  capable  of  heroic  ac- 
tions, 226;  endurance  of 
pain,  226. 

Instincts,  human,  209-228;  in 
children,  214,  215;  Dr.  Wal- 
lace on,  223. 

Itaparica,  capture  of  the  war- 
ship, 95. 

JEFFEBIES,  RICHARD,  instinctive 

savage  feelings,  214. 
Juniper,  a  gum-bearing,  125. 

LA  MERCED,  21. 

Leaf-cutting  ants,  133-138. 

Lichenops  perspicillata,  189. 

Liquorice  plant,  7. 

Little  cock,  amusing  habits  of, 

127. 

Locke  on  mental  pictures,  235. 
Locusts,  depredations  of,  76. 
Lombardy  poplar,  odor  of,  234. 

MAKEN,  125. 

Manzanas,  Las,  103. 

Marti neta,  46. 

Melville.  Herman,  on  the  qual- 
ity of  whiteness,  109-115;  on 
valor,  227. 

Mendoza,  destruction  of,  97. 

Migration,  5-6. 

Military  starling,  122. 

Milky  sea,  a,  118. 

Mill,  J.  S..  a  doctrine  of,  80. 

Milvago  chimango,  see  Carrion- 
hawk. 

Mimus  modulator,  see  Calan- 
dria  mocking-bird. 

Missionary  Society,  South 
American,  29. 

Moby  Dick,  H.  Melville's,   109. 

Mocking-bird,     Patagonian,     9, 


126,  141;  white-banded,  120; 

calandria,   141-142. 
Mocking-birds,  150. 
Myiopotamus  coypu,  see  Coypu. 

NIGHTINGALE,  melody  of,  144. 
Nothura  darwini,  eggs  of,  46. 

OCTJLTO,  habits  of,  128. 
Organ-bird,  Bates  on  the,   154. 
Ostriches,  god  of  the,  120. 
Owl,     Magellanic     eagle,     184- 
187. 

PABKEB,  Prof.  W.  K.,  on  cloth- 
ing, 217. 

Parrots  in  Patagonia,  132. 

Patagonia,  first  sight  of,  5-7; 
legends,  5-7 ;  salubrious  cli- 
mate of,  123,  124;  explored, 
202 ;  Darwin  on  plains  of, 
201;  secret  of  charm  of,  203; 
description  of  scenery  of, 
204-208. 

Peccary,  bones  of,  37. 

Pelleschi  on  Gran  Chaco  In- 
dians, 176. 

Phytotoma  rutila,  see  Plant- 
cutter. 

Picture  puzzles,  172. 

Pigeons,  rock,  resting  in  cliff, 
132. 

Pigs  and  cow,  friendship  be- 
tween, 55,  56. 

Piquellin,  47. 

Plant-cutter  (Phytotoma  ru- 
tila) ,  habits  of,  9. 

Polar  bear,  man's  fear  of,  111, 
119. 

Polybori,  49. 

Polyborus  tharus,  flight  of, 
169. 

Primitive  Culture,  Dr.  Tyler's 
116. 

Progne  furcata,  description  of, 
31;  migration  of,  33. 

Puma,  a  tree-climber,  49; 
abundant  on  the  Rio  Negro, 
76;  depredations  of,  76. 


248 


INDEX 


RAINBOW,  a  brilliant,  50-53. 
Realejo,  song  of,  154. 
Red-billed    finch    (Embernagra 

platensis),  25. 
Resemblance    of    inferior    ani- 

mals to  man,  27. 
Resemblances,     imitative     and 

protective  in  nature,  172-173. 
Retriever,  character  of  the,  59, 

60;  account  of  a,  61-71. 
Revolver  accident,  22. 
Rhea,   bones   of,   38;    a  white, 

120. 
Rhinocrypta   lanceolata,  amus- 

ing habits  of,  127. 
Rio  Negro,  first  sight  of,   16; 

color   of,   35;   valley  of  the, 

35,    36;    psychological    effect 

of  the,  42-46,  48;   extraordi- 

nary sunset  effect  on,  52. 


HUMBOLDTIANA,   48. 

Scandalous,  plant  named,  137. 
Shark,  white,  fear  inspired  by, 

113. 
Sight   in   savage  and  civilized 

men,  158-178. 
Simson,  Mr.,  on  the  flute-bird 

of  Ecuador,  153. 
Siskin,    black-headed    (  Chryso- 

mitris    icterica),    122,    235. 
Snakes,    hard    to    detect,    170; 

defective  sight  of,  177. 
Snow,     at     El     Carmen,     108; 

whiteness   of,    and   effect  on 

the  mind,  114-118. 
Song-s  p  a  r  r  o  w      (  Zonotrichia 

canicapilla),  25. 
Sosa  the  Scout,  anecdote  of,  95. 
Soul  Shapes,  treatise  on,  159. 
South     American     Missionary 

Society,  29. 
Spencer,  Herbert,  on  adaptive- 

ness  of  organs,  175. 
Swallow,  white-rumped  (Tachy- 

cineta   leucorrhoa),   morning 

song  of,  25,  29;   purple,  31; 

migration  of,  32. 


Swan,  black-necked,  17. 
Synallaxis,  9. 

JACHYCINETA  LEUCORBHOA,  see 
Swallow,  white-rumped. 

Tanagers,  150. 

Thoreau,  instinctive  impulses 
in,  221;  on  the  robin's  song, 
223;  feeling  for  nature  in, 
215 

Thorn-bird,  habits  of,  10. 

Thurn,  Mr.  im,  on  paucity  of 
bird  music  in  British  Gui- 
ana, 148. 

Tinamous,  eggs  of,  46;  lan- 
guage and  habits  of,  129- 
130;  seen  on  the  uplands, 
205. 

Trapalanda,  legend  of,  5,  202. 

Traru,  169. 

Troglodytes  furvus,  Azara  on 
song  of,  152. 

Troupials,  number  of  species, 
150. 

Trupialis  militaris,  see  Mili- 
tary starling. 

Tuco-tuco,  37. 

Turdus  fuscater,  see  Blackbird, 
Argentine. 

Tylor,  Dr.,  on  animism,  116. 

UPLAND    GEESE,    51;    shooting, 

67;  depredations  of,  81. 
Upucerthia  dumetoria,  9. 

VIGNOLI,  DR.  DE,  on  the  mythi- 
cal faculty,  117. 
Vizcacha,  bones  of,  37. 
Vulture,  black,  49. 

WALLACE,  DB.  A.  R.,  on  bird 
music  in  the  tropics,  155; 
on  human  instincts,  223;  pe- 
culiar theory  of,  204. 

Waterton,  on  bare  feet,  198. 

Whale,  The,  Melville's  romance, 
109. 

Whiteness,  the  quality  of,  108- 


INDEX  249 

120 ;    abnormal,    in   animals,  Wren,  La  Plata,  Azara  on,  153 ; 

120.  character  of  song  of,  153. 

White  shark,  fear  inspired  by,  Wrens,  a  highly  melodious  fam- 

113.  ily,  153-155. 
Willow  trees  on  the  Rio  Negro, 

48.  ZENAIUA    MACULATA,    song    of, 

Wolseley,   Lord,  on  instinctive  121. 

courage,  211.  Zonotrichia      canicapilla,      see 

Woodman,  10.  Song-sparrow. 


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